The Road Not Taken
by ggo85
Summary: A series of medical and personal events place Martin at a crossroads in his life.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Notes:**

**Rating: PG-13 (adult themes, graphic medical descriptions)**

**Setting: The story takes place approximately six months after S5E8. For those who read _Blood Brothers_, this current story is a stand-alone and not a sequel or follow-on.**

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

**As always, I'm eternally grateful to my beta, jd517. There's nothing more helpful to a FF writer than a great beta and she not only offers terrific suggestions but is also incredibly generous with her time.**

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><p>I was convinced it would be easier – and less painful – to beat my head against the wall than to talk sense into some of my patients.<p>

My current patient, Molly Patterson was a case in point. A short but slender girl with stringy blonde hair, pinched nose and wide green eyes, she'd come to the surgery – her mother in tow – complaining of laryngitis. Her patient notes put her at age seventeen with no significant health issues in the past few years.

"When did the hoarseness come on?" I asked.

"This morning," Molly replied, her voice cracking with the effort. "Like all of a sudden. I was fine yesterday."

"Any other symptoms?"

"Throat's a bit sore," she croaked.

"All right, no more talking," I ordered, grabbing a tongue depressor and coming around the front of my desk to where she was seated. I clicked on my pocket torch. "Open."

The girl's throat was slightly reddened, but there were no signs of tonsillitis or strep. I let my hands slide down her neck. Her glands were somewhat swollen and she complained of pain on swallowing. A quick check of her temperature found that it was only a half degree above normal.

"Well, it's a clear case of laryngitis and probably pharyngitis as well," I diagnosed as I binned the tongue depressor and returned to my desk chair. It was another routine viral infection – annoying for the patient but not serious from a medical standpoint.

"What do I do for it?" Molly asked.

"Stop talking."

"You don't have to be rude," Mrs. Patterson said.

I rolled my eyes. "It's the treatment for laryngitis," I explained. "Complete vocal rest. And especially no whispering; it puts an additional strain on the vocal chords and impedes recovery."

"How long do I—?"

I glared at the girl. "Shush. What part of 'stop talking' didn't you understand?"

Mrs. Patterson took over the questioning. "How long until her voice gets better?"

I scratched out the brief patient notes. "Three to four days, probably."

"It can't be that long!" Molly's voice cracked with the effort.

"It'll be longer if you don't stop talking," I snapped. "Viruses are tricky," I explained. "Symptoms can disappear in a day or two or linger for more than a week."

"But she's supposed to sing in the school play this weekend," her mother said. "That's the day after tomorrow. She's the lead vocalist."

I shook my head. "Absolutely not."

"But I have to!" Molly was nearly in tears.

"You don't know how much this means to her," her mother added. "It's _Les Miserables_. Over twenty girls auditioned for the lead role and she got it. She's been rehearsing for weeks."

"None of which is relevant to her current medical condition." I switched my gaze to the girl. "The fact remains that you won't be able to talk, let alone sing, for several days."

"You don't care, do you?" Mrs. Patterson asked in a whingy voice. "About her being able to sing in the school musical."

"I _care_ that she recovers as quickly as possible. That's all."

"Then why don't you give her something? Antibiotics, maybe?"

I blew out a long breath. "She has a virus. Antibiotics are ineffective against viruses."

"There has to be something you can do."

As if I could suddenly produce a magic cure for a viral sore throat. I focused my gaze on Molly. "Stay home. Rest your voice. Gargle with warm saltwater. Drink plenty of fluids. Take paracetamol or lozenges for the throat pain. If your symptoms don't improve in a week, give me a call."

"That's it?" Mrs. Patterson asked.

"That's it." I stood up.

"I can't believe this is happening," Molly croaked and I gave up trying to get her to shut up.

"I don't know why we even bothered to come see you," Mrs. Patterson huffed as she preceded me through the waiting room.

"Well Doc, there goes another satisfied customer," Morwenna quipped as her eyes followed them out the door.

I ignored the barb. I'd done what I needed to do as the GP: diagnosed the medical problem and prescribed appropriate treatment. The one thing I couldn't do was force my patient or her mother to accept the medical facts. And one of those facts was that there was nothing that could be done for viral laryngitis beyond what I'd already prescribed. As far as I was concerned, the rest of it – her singing or musical or whatever – was superfluous.

"Who's the next patient?" I asked.

"2:30. Mrs. Wells."

Fifteen minutes from now; time for a cup of tea and a quick check on James Henry. I handed Molly Patterson's patient notes to Morwenna.

She snatched them from me with a frown. "Filing, filing, filing. It's all I ever do."

I started walking toward the kitchen.

"Hey Doc," Morwenna's voice came from behind me. "Just so you know, I'm bored with my job."

"So find yourself another job," I replied over my shoulder.

"What?"

I turned to face her. "I said that, if you're bored with your job, you should find another position."

She cocked her head, long earrings dangling about. "That's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

"I'm saying I want to do more than what I'm doing now – answering the telephone, making appointments and filing."

"That's what a receptionist in a doctor's surgery does."

"You let Pauline draw blood," she said, in a tone that was almost accusatory.

Only because, at the time, there were extenuating circumstances. "I'm perfectly capable of drawing blood. And, besides, you're afraid of needles, which would make phlebotomy more than a little difficult."

She shrugged. "Yeah. But there has to be something else I could do. Be your assistant maybe."

"Morwenna, I don't need an assistant; I need a receptionist."

"I helped you with that surgery on Louisa's mum. You said I did a fine job."

"I said you were acceptable. And, besides, that was an emergency."

"I can do more, I know I can."

"I don't need you to do more. I need you to do your job. If you don't like it, find somewhere else to work."

With that I turned on my heel and retreated to the kitchen. To my chagrin, Louisa and James Henry were nowhere in sight and neither was the buggy. Given that it was an unusually beautiful and warm spring day, it seemed clear they'd taken a stroll. While I was disappointed not to see them, after several days of being stuck indoors because of the rain, a bit of fresh air would do both of them good.

As I poured my tea, I considered that maybe Morwenna did have a point. She'd handled herself well during the emergency hernia repair. And she'd performed satisfactorily with the typical receptionist duties – better than I'd expected when I'd hired her. Maybe there was something else I could find for her to do. Perhaps she could be trained to inventory and order supplies. I wasn't ready to make any promises but would at least give the idea some thought.

I pushed aside Morwenna's dirty coffee cup resting on the counter and once again reflected on the fact that it might be time to move to a larger home. The current building had been more than adequate to double as surgery and home when I was the only one living here. Now, with Louisa and James Henry here as well – and especially with Louisa staying in the cottage much of the day during her sabbatical from school – the space seemed a tad small.

I also wasn't sure I liked having my surgery and our living quarters in the same cottage. Although it was easy for me to visit my son during short breaks in my schedule, having patients coming and going at all hours took away any sense of privacy, and Morwenna and Louisa were constantly bumping into each other in the kitchen. Not to mention there was an endless parade of sick people through one side of our cottage that tracked in far too many unwanted germs.

I'd briefly spoken to the estate agent about the possibility of finding a larger building that would allow greater separation between the surgery and living quarters. However, there was minimal turnover in Portwenn, especially of cottages sufficiently large to meet our requirements. We'd also discussed keeping the current surgery for the medical purpose alone and finding a second cottage to serve as our home. There was a decent selection of available cottages, but most were far too distant from the surgery to be practical. The estate agent promised to keep looking and, for now, Louisa and I had decided to make the best of our current residence.

I glanced at my watch and took my last sip of tea. My next patient was due in only two minutes.


	2. Chapter 2

When my diagnosis of laryngitis had essentially restricted Molly Patterson from singing in her high school musical, I never dreamed I would find myself there instead. How Louisa had ever convinced me to attend tonight's play, God only knew. Although I wasn't all that keen on the performing arts, when I'd lived in London it was hard to avoid attending a play or musical with at least some frequency. And, I did enjoy a fine professional performance, often intrigued at the similarities between a dramatic theatre and the operating theatre. As a result, during my many years in the city, I'd attended my share of Andrew Lloyd Weber, Agatha Christie, and various other "must see" shows.

One of the problems with growing up on London plays was that everything else paled in comparison. That included the Cornish summer stock productions of such staples as _Camelot_, _The Sound of Music_, and _Cats_, with performers who could neither act nor sing, at least when compared to their London counterparts. It was painful but, absent a trip to the West End, the only option for the entertainment-minded in Cornwall. They endured; I ignored. An evening home by myself, or now with Louisa and James Henry, was infinitely preferable to whatever the locals could conjure up to put onstage.

The only thing worse than the semi-professional productions, at least to my mind, was a school play, which was exactly what I was enduring at the moment – the Portwenn Secondary School's spring production of _Les Miserables_, to be precise. The title adequately described my state of being at the moment, miserable. I'd seen the musical in London years ago and, even with a professional cast, the musical score was challenging. In the hands of teenagers, it was an unmitigated disaster: off-key, off-pitch, just . . . off.

My situation was made worse by the fact that I was crammed into one of the tiny seats of the school auditorium, with my knees bunched up to my chest and my large frame pouring over the armrests. The play had been running for only a short time and I was already counting the minutes until intermission when I could at least stretch my legs.

I restlessly shifted my position without actually becoming more comfortable, tapping my feet to restore some circulation in my lower body. Tuning out whatever lines were being muffed or songs being ruined, I fumbled with the program and thought about constructing a paper airplane.

I felt Louisa's hand touch my right knee. A glance at her face revealed that one of us seemed to be enjoying the performance, which was probably because many of the actors had been her students in their primary school days. I'd recognized a few names from the program as current patients, not that I had any interest in watching my patients participate in the performing arts. An understudy had taken Molly Patterson's role, and I wondered in passing whether the girl was attending tonight's performance. Probably not. No doubt she and her mother were home cursing me for being unwilling to prescribe useless antibiotics.

A glance at the man sitting on my left suggested he was as uncomfortable as I was. It was Ethan Brown, the local estate agent, who'd been trying to find us a new place to live and work. Brown was quite successful and held a virtual monopoly on estate sales in Truro and the surrounding villages.

As I recalled, the man didn't have children, which made me curious as to what had brought him to tonight's performance. Seated on his other side was a woman who, even in the darkened auditorium, cut a striking figure. As I watched, Brown's hand ran up and down the woman's leg almost reaching under her short skirt, an activity he quite understandably seemed to find more interesting than the moronic play. And, given that the woman didn't seem to mind his attention – and the fact that Brown was wearing a shiny new wedding band – I decided that he was recently married, hopefully to the woman sitting next to him. One never knew.

Brown coughed, covering his mouth with one hand while keeping the other firmly attached to the woman's leg. Good man.

Seeing as that tactic had apparently worked for Brown, I turned my attention back to Louisa and gently placed my hand on her left knee, letting it rest there comfortably. Her hand covered mine and we gently intertwined our fingers. Maybe there were some advantages to mindless school musicals.

On stage, two students were singing a duet, which was only slightly less awful than the last number. Beside me, Brown coughed again, this time into his handkerchief and, as I observed, swallowed several more small hacks. Given the choice between listening to more of the musical or trying to diagnose Brown, not surprisingly I found the latter more productive. Louisa, still entranced in the play, was probably happy that I was no longer squirming in my seat or being disruptive.

When, a few minutes later, Brown started coughing yet again, some of our fellow patrons finally made their displeasure known. Several "shushed" him, while a few more advised in whispered voices that he step outside until he was feeling better.

Whether or not in response to their suggestions, Brown stood up from his seat and, with a soft "Excuse me," started to climb over my legs to reach the aisle.

That was never going to work and I took the opportunity to stand up as well. "I'm going to get some air," I said softly to Louisa, who frowned in response. If she was still irritated with me later for leaving in the middle of the play, I'd explain I was attending to a patient.

In corridor outside the auditorium Brown leaned against the wall and continued to cough loudly. In the light, I noted he wore a dark blue suit that draped nicely over a frame that was a head shorter and slightly thinner than my own. His black shoes were freshly polished and had the stiffness of a new purchase. Given that he was about a decade my senior, I envied his full head of hair – still mostly black with fine lines of silver. Only his crooked nose and pockmarked cheeks prevented him from having the distinguished appearance of a television actor.

Finally coughed out and wheezing heavily, he helped himself to water from the fountain, cleared his throat and appeared to notice me for the first time.

"Ah, Doctor Ellingham. What brings you to this august event?"

"Louisa," I replied simply and truthfully.

"The play is ghastly, isn't it?"

I wasn't interested in discussing the merits of the play. "How long have you had that cough?"

"I'm still searching for the right cottage for the both of you," he said, ignoring my question. "There's one coming on the market that may be exactly what you're looking for."

I also wasn't interested in discussing local real estate. "How long have you had the cough?" I persisted.

He looked down at his kerchief then back at me and shrugged. "I sometimes get a tickle in my throat. At least tonight it gave me an excuse to escape for a few minutes. Just a cold," he added.

To my experienced ear, it didn't sound anything like a URI. "I don't think so. I'd like to see you Monday in my surgery. You can call my receptionist for an appointment."

"Afraid I can't Monday. Have a full schedule of appointments of my own. Booked up all day."

"Reschedule them."

He stared at me as if trying to decide whether I was serious. No doubt my granite expression provided the answer, even if it wasn't the one he wanted.

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><p>I waited outside of the auditorium until intermission and then met up with Louisa in the lobby. She was wearing a navy form-fitting dress that she'd purchased last week in Truro and her hair was tied back in a chignon. As I walked toward her, I decided she was without a doubt the most beautiful woman in the room and still had trouble understanding what she saw in a sod like me.<p>

"Martin," she said, greeting me with a smile. "Everything alright?"

"Fine."

She pointed to some tables covered with assorted baked goods. "Would you like something to eat?"

I glanced over at the platters and boxes filled with an assortment of biscuits, cakes, and candies and frowned with disapproval.

"There's nothing but sweets, all of which are exorbitantly high in sugar, fat, and calories while simultaneously lacking any nutritional benefit whatsoever. It's no wonder half the children in the UK are obese. And there's no telling the unsanitary conditions under which those items were prepared. Look!" I pointed. "She's touching the biscuits with her bare hands, which I sincerely doubt have been washed recently."

"Martin," she said with a pointed sigh, "a simple 'no' would have sufficed."

I merely stared at her.

"Oh, Doctor Ellingham!" Someone was calling me from halfway across the room. "Doctor Ellingham!"

As the elderly woman made her way towards us, I recognized Mrs. Walker, who had the distinction of being my very first patient in Portwenn and remained one of the most frequent visitors to my surgery. Although I wasn't particularly good with patient names, it was hard to forget hers.

"Mrs. Walker," I said formally.

"Doctor, I'm so glad I found you here. I wanted to tell you about my bursitis. You said it would be better in a month. It's not better."

"Has it been a month?"

She frowned. "It's been three full weeks."

"Three weeks is not a month."

"It's close enough and I'm no better at all."

"Excuse me." Louisa was suddenly at my arm. "Martin, I think we need to find our seats. Intermission's almost over and we don't want to be late for the second half, do we?"

"Uh, no. Of course not." I turned to Mrs. Walker. "If you're not better in a week, call my receptionist." I turned away. "Come on, Louisa."

As we walked away, hand in hand, I realized not for the first times that there were indeed many unexpected benefits in having Louisa as my wife.


	3. Chapter 3

"What's the medical emergency?" I asked as I ushered Mrs. Burns and her two-year-old toddler into my consulting room. According to Morwenna, the mother had called the surgery a short time ago, nearly hysterical, requesting an emergency appointment. A quick visual appraisal of her son revealed no evidence of obvious injury or illness and a perusal of his patient notes a few minutes ago showed that he'd generally been a healthy child.

I leaned against my desk, the mother and son in front of me. Mrs. Burns was a willowy brunette, with small brown eyes, a thin unblemished face, and long hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Her son, by contrast, was a chubby boy, with blond curly hair who kept turning his face away from me and trying to hide behind his mother's legs.

"It's Morgan," she said, firmly pushing him forward. "I think he's got a pea lodged up his nose and I can't seem to get it out."

"What?"

"A pea. You know, like you eat."

"I know what a pea is. How did it get into his nose?"

"I was cooking peas for the casserole and some fell on the floor. You have a boy." She shrugged as if this were an everyday occurrence. "You know how they are, always putting things in their mouths and ears and nose—"

I shook my head. "Only if they're not properly supervised." I opened the consulting room door and called for Morwenna, then stepped to the counter and pulled several supplies from the cabinets.

"I try to keep an eye on him," the mother said. "But once they start walking and then running even, you turn your back for a minute and Lord knows the trouble they can get into."

Morwenna poked her head into the room. "Yeah, Doc."

She wanted to assist me; this was her chance.

"I need to remove an object from the boy's nostril," I said, laying my supplies on the rolling cart. "I'll give him a topical anesthetic but he's still going to find the procedure uncomfortable. I need you to help his mother hold him absolutely still, so the object doesn't end up in his trachea. Understand?"

Morwenna narrowed her eyes. "Most of it."

"Good."

I directed the mother to the exam couch. "Take a seat and put the boy on your lap," I instructed. "You." I turned my gaze on Morwenna. "Keep his head still."

The child continued to wiggle and, in turn, Morwenna gripped his head even harder. When I was finally satisfied that the child was held firmly in place, I grasped the boy's head in one hand and tilted it back. The tension in the child's neck muscles and the panic in his eyes made clear that he was deathly afraid of whatever I was going to do next.

"What's that?" Mrs. Burns asked as I applied some drops to each nostril.

"It's a topical decongestant combined with an anesthetic." When she gave me a blank look, I added, "The drops will make the procedure more comfortable and minimize the likelihood of bleeding."

"He won't need to go to Truro?"

"No."

Many GPs weren't comfortable removing foreign bodies from the ears, noses, and throats of young patients, as the potential for complications was considerable. The risks caused by squirming children, unfamiliar surgical instruments, and the possibility of pushing the offending object deep into the trachea led most GPs to refer these cases to otolaryngologists. I, on the other hand, was infinitely comfortable with forceps and, with two adults to keep the child still, confident in my ability to perform the procedure in the surgery.

After angling the viewing light to provide the best illumination possible, I used a pediatric nasal speculum to check the inside of both nostrils. The child tried to squirm away from the instrument, and I had to pause for a moment as Morwenna again tightened her hold. The left side of the nose was clear but there was definitely an object lodged in the right; it could well be a pea or God knew what else.

"Do you see anything?" the mother asked from behind my shoulder when I pulled away to exchange instruments.

I backed up to force her out of my way. "Yes, there's an object in his right nostril."

"Can you get it out?"

"Of course I can."

As I reached for the forceps, I couldn't help but reflect on the irony of the situation. At the castle several months ago, I'd enumerated for Louisa the reasons that I hated Portwenn. This was one of those reasons. Instead of performing delicate surgical repair on microscopic arteries and veins, instead of saving lives, I was spending my morning pulling a pea from a child's nose. Good Lord.

"Keep him absolutely still now," I said, angling the forceps to get as good a grip as possible on the small object. Morwenna was, I had to admit, doing an excellent job of keeping the child's head immobile as I worked.

The boy was blinking rapidly and, every few seconds would whimper. Since I'd given him sufficient analgesia, I knew it was due to fear or annoyance at not being able to move and not from any pain I was causing.

"Are you hurting him," the mother asked, again edging closer.

I didn't even look at her. "Of course not."

"It's alright, Morgan," Morwenna soothed. "Doc's almost finished."

I rolled my eyes then carefully grasped the foreign object between the jaws of the forceps and slowly extracted it from the nostril.

Morwenna wrinkled her nose at the sight of the object I'd removed. "Ooh, gawd, that's gross."

I frowned at her and examined the object closely. It was hard to tell the thing was a pea, given that it was covered in a combination of blood and nasal secretions. I gave a snort of disgust as I dropped it into the basin, then rechecked the child's nose to ensure I'd retrieved the entire object and that there wasn't anything else lodged inside.

"Finished," I said when I was satisfied, and Morwenna and Mrs. Burns released their holds on the boy.

"Morgan, you did just great," the mother said, hugging her son.

"How about me, Doc?" Morwenna asked, and I only growled in reply.

"We're done," I added, when the mother made no move to leave the consulting room.

"Oh, right. Come along Morgan." She grabbed her son's hand and dragged him out the door.

After she and her son had left and I completed my notes on the boy, I walked into my waiting room expecting to find my next patient seated in one of the chairs. To my surprise, the room was empty.

I prided myself on keeping to my schedule, unless of course a medical emergency intervened. Today's pea in the nostril incident would likely put me behind and patients who weren't on time for their appointments would only exacerbate the situation.

"Where's Mr. Brown?" I asked after a quick check of my appointment list. He was my 11:00 appointment and it was now five minutes past.

Morwenna, who by now had returned to her desk, looked up from her magazine with an expression of boredom. "How should I know?"

"Did he phone to say he'd be late?"

"If he had, I'd know where he was, now wouldn't I?"

"Who's my next patient after him?"

"Mrs. Pitts is bringing in Caitlyn for her jabs."

That wouldn't take long so maybe I could get back on schedule. "Right."

"Hey, Doc. Would it be alright if I left a bit early today?"

I frowned. "How long is 'a bit'?"

"An hour? Nate's taking me to see Muse at Colston."

"Huh?" I had no idea what she'd just said. Who was Nate? Who or what was Muse? Who or what was Colston? It was hard to believe the woman was actually speaking English.

"Nate," she said as if this should be obvious. "You know, the chemist."

Ah, Nathaniel Pruitt. He'd arrived in Portwenn about a month ago, straight out of pharmacy school. In appearance he was the spitting image of a young Danny Steele, so much so that I initially worried that the codger's brother had appeared. Thankfully, the resemblance ended there. Pruitt was more than a decade younger, didn't have a God complex and – I thought with a mental smile – wasn't the least bit interested in Louisa.

Although basically capable and incredibly eager, he did lack Mrs. Tishell's experience. Despite the woman's many faults and until the incident when she'd self-medicated, she'd been a competent chemist. She could be counted on to keep me informed if my patients asked for too many repeat prescriptions, tried to mix medications, or any number of countless other things that a chemist would learn and that, when passed along, helped with my practice.

These were all things that hopefully, with time, Pruitt too would master. In the meantime, I hadn't realized Morwenna had a boyfriend, let alone that it was the chemist. Not that I particularly cared other than how it would affect her performance as my receptionist.

"He's taking me to the Muse concert at Colston Hall in Bristol tonight," she continued.

"Bristol? That's quite a trip."

"Which is why I need to leave early.

"What's Muse?"

"You're joking, right?"

I simply stared at her.

"They're only THE hottest band in the UK. You must have at least heard of them."

"No."

"Doc, you need to get out more."

"No I don't."

The front door to the surgery opened and estate agent and now patient Ethan Brown stepped inside, nervous and panting. He shrugged out of his MacIntosh, shaking off some of the water droplets.

"Dr. Ellingham, sorry I'm late. I was showing a property in Truro this morning and the traffic between there and here was bloody awful, especially with the rain and all. Took me nearly two hours. Probably should have phoned you—"

"Yes, you should have." I took his notes from Morwenna. "Come through."

"Doc," Morwenna called out from behind us. "About leaving early . . ."

"Yes, yes, alright," I agreed impatiently and headed into my consulting room, for once hoping that this appointment would turn out to be as mundane as the rest of my day.


	4. Chapter 4

A minute later, Ethan Brown sat across from my desk. It was one of the few times there were two people in my consulting room dressed in a suit. His was the same he'd worn to the school musical the other night, now paired with a white shirt and pink tie that was a bit too modern for my tastes. Brown wasn't a frequent visitor to the surgery and his patient notes confirmed I'd last seen him more than two years ago for influenza.

In response to my questioning, I learned that he'd had his cough for the past several months.

"And you're a smoker," I said, confirming my notes from his last visit, although I hadn't detected the usual odor on his breath or clothing.

"I _used_ to be a smoker," he replied. "Quit six months ago when I got married. Haven't picked up a cigarette since."

"The woman sitting next to you at the play?" I asked.

"Yes. You're probably wondering about the age difference."

"Not really."

"I'm 55 and Judith's 32. Most people think it's some fad – you know, old man marries good-looking young woman as a trophy wife. But it's not like that."

"Uh-huh."

"She's the best thing that happened to me. Got me to quit smoking, as you can see. And I'm exercising a lot more, although it's not easy at my age." Suddenly, Brown covered his mouth with his hand and coughed loudly. It was a dry, hacking cough that to my experienced ears didn't sound like a URI, bronchitis or any of the other usual viral causes.

Brown cleared his throat. "I'm running a 5k race next month. We're going to movies and plays. It's the first time since my divorce ten years ago that I'm enjoying life."

"Those changes should improve your health." I added to his notes only that he was now married and, as of six months ago, a non-smoker and physically active. The rest was irrelevant from a medical standpoint.

"The other day, I actually wanted to leave work early to get home," Brown was now saying. "A year ago, work was all I did and I stayed at the office as late as possible because going home was so damn miserable. Do you know how feels to have a great woman to come home to? To have someone to eat dinner with or just sit and talk?" He gave me a slight wink. "Well, I guess you do now, don't you?"

Like Ethan Brown, for years I'd convinced myself that living alone didn't matter, that I was perfectly happy with my work and my erstwhile hobbies. Since Louisa and I had been together and then married, I too had a new perspective on life. Certainly there were some days when I missed the peace and quiet of living on my own and the moments of quiet solitude. On the whole, however, life with Louisa and James Henry was infinitely preferable to spending the rest of my days alone.

"Don't get me wrong," Brown said. "I still love working. It's just that I finally realized how much fun _not_ working can be. Take that horrible play. Judy knows a lot of those kids from church, so it was important to her that we went. And that was okay. The singing may have been bloody awful but we were there together, so how bad could it be?"

Pretty bad, I thought to myself.

"You were there with Louisa. I'm sure that made the whole thing at least bearable, right?"

"No." Well, that wasn't exactly true. Spending time with Louisa at the stupid play was better spending it apart. Nonetheless, it was time to get this discussion back on its proper medical track.

"How long did you smoke before you quit?"

"Started when I was 16. Off and on since then. Tried to quit a few times but wasn't successful until Judy came along."

I wrote the facts in his patient notes. "How many packs per day?"

"Why all the questions? I've quit already."

"How many packs per day?"

He shrugged. "Two, more or less."

"Have you coughed up any blood?"

"Uh . . . not really."

I frowned at the hesitation in his answer. "What does that mean?" I pressed.

"Oh, there was once, maybe a month ago."

"You know that coughing up blood can indicate a serious medical problem. Why didn't you come see me immediately?"

"Doctor Ellingham, I feel great. I've even managed to lose that weight I could never take off."

The last time I'd seen him, there'd been a slight paunch that was now clearly gone. "How much weight have you lost?"

He pointed at his taut abdomen and smiled. "Fifteen pounds. Marriage is a great thing, Doc."

I put down my pen. "Since I haven't seen you in more than two years, I'd like to do a complete examination."

"Come on. You said this wouldn't take long." Brown glanced meaningfully at his watch. "I'm to show a property this afternoon—"

"It won't take long," I assured him, directing him behind the privacy screen.

Fifteen minutes later, I'd completed my examination and Ethan Brown was again fully dressed and seated in front of me. Laid out on the counter was a collection of blood, urine and sputum samples that would go out for testing.

The examination had confirmed my worst fears and I wrestled with how much to tell him of my suspicions. Until a few months ago, I would have given him my preliminary diagnosis straight off. Instead, I found myself hesitating. Brown was happy, apparently for the first time in years. Now that I'd finally experienced that same emotion, I had a newfound appreciation for how much it meant. If I told him of my suspicions, I'd take it all from him in an instant. On the other hand, as his GP, it was my responsibility to be forthright with all my patients, even the happy ones for whom my words might be sobering.

"I'm going to refer you to a pulmonologist," I said, scribbling out the referral scrip.

He gave me a look of surprise. "A lung specialist? Why?"

"You have a persistent cough. You've coughed up blood. You were a smoker for many years. You've recently lost weight. And there's pronounced wheezing in your right lung."

As I'd rattled off the list of symptoms, Brown's face had increasingly taken on a expression of terror. "My God," he almost whispered. "What do you think I have? Lung cancer?"

I met his gaze. "It's one possibility. There are quite a few others, which is why I'm sending you to a consultant."

"But I'm only 55. And I've stopped smoking. I just got married."

"Mr. Brown," I said, raising a hand to stop him. "Let's see what the pulmonologist says."

* * *

><p>Once my last patient of the day had departed, I carried the remaining lab samples and patient notes out to Morwenna.<p>

"Do you have tomorrow's schedule ready?"

She handed me a sheet of paper. "Yeah."

A fairly full day, I noted in passing. Most of the names I recognized; one or two were unfamiliar.

I replaced the list on the desk. "Morwenna, how would you like to be responsible for inventorying and ordering supplies for the surgery?"

Her eyes got wide. "Really? Everything?"

"Not the medications," I added and watched her face drop a bit. "Everything else. You'll need to keep track of the stock and follow up with the chemist or the medical supply company to make sure we don't run out of anything."

"How will I know how much you need of everything?"

"I'll tell you."

"Don't you have an inventory list on the computer?"

"No." I'd never even considered doing that.

"I'll make one then." She stood up and grabbed a pen and paper off the desk. "Can you show me now?"

I led her into the consulting room and started showing her the large volume of supplies that a GP surgery needed to function.

"Latex gloves, size XL. One box is in use here on the counter or on the cart; there should always be an extra box in the cabinet."

She dutifully noted it on her pad. "What are those?" she asked, pointing at a box of pre-packaged swabs.

"Rapid strep tests. They allow me to make an immediate diagnosis of strep throat. It's important to ensure we have plenty on hand in the winter months, at least two dozen at all times."

"Right."

For the next half-hour, I walked Morwenna through the supplies, explaining the vagaries of everything from tongue depressors and gauze bandages to disposable otoscope specula, syringes and, suture kits. I discussed how many I should have on hand at any given time, the usual lead time to obtain more, and the need to stock up on certain items at particular times of year.

Once we'd finished with the consulting room, I showed her to the additional storage closet off of the kitchen, where I kept less frequently used supplies as well as some bulky items too large to fit in the consulting room storage.

"You won't need to check these more than once a month," I said. More important, I didn't want Morwenna walking through our home every day on the pretext of inventorying supplies.

"What are those?" she asked, pointing to several wrapped trays.

"These are surgical kits. And these over here," I pointed to the other side of the closet, "are obstetrical kits."

"You deliver babies?" she asked, apparently surprised at the thought.

"As infrequently as possible." I'd done an obstetrics course as part of my GP retraining and had delivered a handful of babies in my years in Portwenn, starting with Louisa's friend Isobel on our ill-fated wedding day. However, whenever possible, I referred the cases to the district midwife for uncomplicated deliveries or, when necessary, to one of the obstetricians in Truro.

I shut the closet and started to head back to the waiting room.

"Anything else?" Morwenna asked.

"Not for now. Let's see how this goes first." I still had my doubts as to the wisdom of letting Morwenna handle my supplies and vowed to keep a close watch on things until I was certain she had everything well in hand.

She smiled broadly and her eyes twinkled in delight. "I won't disappoint you, Doc. You'll have the most organized inventory system from here to Truro in no time. Promise."

Oh God, what had I managed to get myself into? "Morwenna, all I need is to be sure supplies are ordered so I don't run out of anything at an inopportune moment. Understand?"

"Absolutely, Doc," she said, with what looked to be a wicked grin plastered on her face. "I've got you covered."

Which is exactly what I was afraid of.


	5. Chapter 5

"What are you doing to him?" I asked, walking into our bedroom, staring at Louisa and James Henry and trying to figure out what in the world was going on.

They were both on the bed, Louisa in a track suit and the baby completely naked. Louisa was struggling to stick him into some odd garment and James Henry, while giggling contentedly, was twisting his arms and legs in such a way as to make Louisa's job quite difficult.

She looked up at me. "I'm putting on his bathing suit."

I stared more closely at the contraption she trying to put on our son. "His what?"

Louisa looked at me as if I was the idiot. "His bathing suit."

"Why does he need a bathing suit and where is his nappy?"

"He wears a swim nappy." She held up a pair of what looked to be padded pants. "And," she said, holding up a garment that had all sorts of padding around the midsection, "he needs his swimsuit for his swimming lesson, of course."

"Swimming lesson? Louisa, he's only just started to crawl."

"It's not really swimming. The class is supposed to make babies more comfortable in the water. And you know how much he loves his baths."

It was true that James enjoyed splashing around during his baths but that was a far cry from swimming. I still couldn't get my head around the concept of swimming lessons for a nine-month-old infant. "And where does this . . . swimming lesson take place?"

"At the rec center."

I stared at her in disbelief. "You can be serious about taking him there!" She really couldn't be.

The look she gave me was defiant. "I am serious about taking him there."

"Louisa, a community pool is a breeding ground for viruses and bacteria. Water transmits all forms of sickness and disease, and I have my doubts that the rec center pool has been properly treated with chemicals."

"Martin, people go to the rec center with children all the time."

"Yes, and when get sick from that ill-advised idea, I end up treating them in my surgery."

"It will be fine; we'll be fine. James isn't the first baby to have a swim lesson." She adjusted the swimsuit. "Besides, if you're so concerned, why don't you come with us?"

The thought was so abhorrent that I couldn't even formulate a reply.

"Come on Martin, we can make a family outing of it. You could take photos. What else are you going to do on a Saturday morning?"

I could think of at least a dozen things that would be infinitely preferable to spending a morning at the rec center taking photos, even if it meant spending time with Louisa and James Henry. "I don't think . . ."

"Martin, please," she said, staring up at me with large eyes. "It would mean a lot to me – and to James – if you came with us."

I swallowed hard. I had less than no interest in this activity. I didn't understand why Louisa wanted to subject our son to a bacteria-infested pool years before he would actually be able to learn how to swim. In the past, I would simply have refused to go with her.

Months ago, when I'd told Louisa that I loved her, I'd also vowed that I wouldn't be like my father – distant and unloving and putting his own needs ahead of those of his son. If I were to continue trying to make good on my promise to her, I needed to go with her today – not because I had any desire to visit that putrid rec center or observe erstwhile swimming lessons but because Louisa wanted me to go. And, I reassured myself, at least if I were there I could keep some eye on the state of cleanliness.

I took a deep breath. "Alright then."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Really? You'll go?"

"Yes."

"That's . . . thank you."

I looked down; I was wearing only my dressing gown. "I'll need to dress first," I said, heading toward the wardrobe and pulling out a light grey suit and blue tie.

"Uh, Martin."

I turned around. "Yes?"

"You don't wear a suit to the pool – unless it's a swimsuit. You'll look . . . weird."

My eyebrows lifted. Not wear a suit? I wasn't sure what I was expected to wear and didn't own anything approaching the track suit that Louisa sported. I noted in passing that she'd managed to fit James into his bathing suit and had pulled a sweater and trousers over it. Leaving me to watch over the baby, she poked through my closet, huffing in discontent at my lack of "casual clothes," and finally pulled out a pair of trousers and a dress shirt.

"I suppose you can roll up the sleeves," she said, holding up a pale blue shirt and giving it – and me – a dubious look.

Rolling up the sleeves of a dress shirt didn't sound like a great idea. After some give and take, I agreed to forego the tie and Louisa didn't complain when I left the sleeves tightly buttoned at the neck and cuffs and donned my suit jacket.

* * *

><p>At the rec center, I carefully scrutinized the pool and decided that the water looked clean enough. There was no mildew or buildup along the sides, no trash or debris in the water itself, and the pool deck appeared to have been recently scrubbed. Of course, the cleanest looking water could be infested with bacteria, and I had half a mind to consult the lifeguard to ensure they were taking the appropriate chemical treatment measures for proper sanitation.<p>

Before I could do so, I was distracted by the sight of Louisa coming out of the women's changing room in her swimsuit, carrying James Henry. It was the first time I'd ever seen her in a swimsuit and, while the one-piece was not exactly revealing, it did flatter her curves and the green color showed off her dark hair and eyes. She was radiant and suddenly I was glad I'd agreed to come with her.

The instructor was a perky woman in her early twenties, seemingly filled with boundless energy. At the sight of Louisa and James, she rushed over and greeted them with a huge smile and firm handshake.

"I see Daddy's come with us for baby's first lesson," she exclaimed upon seeing me. "How wonderful." She frowned at my attire. "Will you be joining us in the water?"

"No."

"Right." She turned to her more eager pupils. "Come along then. Let's get started!"

Louisa carried the baby into the shallow end of the pool. The water was just over a meter deep and she was easily able to stand upright and hold James Henry above the surface. There was only one other mother and child in the pool with them – someone from Wadebridge whom neither Louisa nor I knew. When I commented on the lack of participation in the class, Louisa had impertinently told me that, for the smallest babies, the classes were intentionally limited to no more than two.

"Nice and easy," the instructor was now saying. "We want this to be a positive experience for baby."

Something about the instructor's sing-song voice and seeing Louisa and James Henry together in the water brought back horrific memories of that obnoxious midwife and that monstrosity of a pool she'd recommended for our son's birth. What a disaster she'd been.

I pushed those thoughts out of my mind and watched the goings on in this pool. Within minutes, James Henry was floating on his back in the water, giggling and excited, with Louisa smiling triumphantly at me. James Henry might not be learning the first thing about swimming, but both he and Louisa were clearly enjoying themselves, and I had to admit that the instructor seemed to know what she was doing.

"Martin, take a photo," Louisa called out. "There's a camera in my bag." When I hesitated, she added, "Come on. We should have a photo of his first swimming lesson."

After a bit more encouragement from Louisa and with some reluctance, I retrieved the camera from Louisa's bag then fiddled with the assortment of settings and buttons, trying to sort out how to use it.

Hoping the camera was as automatic as the advertisements claimed, I finally snapped a picture, feeling like an absolute idiot. Thankfully, everyone around me seemed engrossed in whatever they were doing and no one appeared to take notice of my efforts.

"You need to use the flash," Louisa called out from the pool.

"Uh, right." Didn't cameras flash automatically these days?

"It's the button that looks like a lightning bolt," Louisa called out helpfully.

I sighed, pressed the button she'd described and tried again. This time, I was rewarded with a bright flash and an equally bright smile from Louisa. I could only hope I'd managed to get her head and James' Henry's body in the same frame.

Across the pool, a group of boys was taking turns jumping into the water. I recognized a couple of the boys as patients; the others were unfamiliar. Every entry was followed by a large splash that sent water raining across the pool deck.

"I'm doing a cannonball!" one of the boys called out. Taking a running start, he jumped into the air, grabbed both knees and propelled himself into the water. The result was a huge spray, spewing water high into the air as well as across the pool and onto my lower legs. It was all I could do to keep the camera covered as much as possible.

"Oh for God's sake!" I exclaimed, backing away and examining the damage done to my wool trousers and dress shoes.

Louisa, who was climbing out of the water, laughed softly. "Martin, most people come to the pool to _get_ wet." She reached for a thick terry towel and wrapped it around James Henry.

"I just retrieved these trousers from the dry cleaners!"

"And you can take them back to the cleaners if need be." She said handed our son to me. "Could you hold him while I dry off?"

I took him from her, checking to ensure he'd suffered no ill effects from his time in the water. I had to admit that he seemed content and maybe even a bit tired, which meant he might sleep on the trip home.

"Are you planning to swim?" I asked.

There was another splash from the pool. From what I could determine, the boys were playing a game of one-upmanship, where the goal seemed to be to make the most spectacular leap into the pool, or maybe it was to make the biggest splash. By now, however, I'd moved far enough away that I managed to avoid most of the spray.

"I don't think so," she said. "James is tired and probably hungry as well."

"That's nothing!" I heard one of the boys call out. Looking up I saw it was Bobby Richards, who'd attracted a small audience. "Anyone can do a cannonball. Wait 'til you see what I'm gonna do."

"What?" one of his friends asked.

"Just wait," Bobby taunted them. "It's so much better than a cannonball."

"Come on, tell us."

I ignored the rest of their chatter and brushed a few drops of water off James Henry's face while Louisa gathered up her things.

Across the pool, there was another splash – much less dramatic than what had been going on for last few minutes. When I looked over, Bobby was nowhere to be seen and I assumed he'd already entered the water performing the maneuver he'd bragged about. As I observed the scene more closely, I noticed that the other boys, who a moment ago had been boisterous and exuberant, were now unexpectedly quiet. I couldn't help but sense that something was wrong.

Before I could identify the source of my apprehension, I watched as the boys ran toward the side of the pool and peered over the edge.

What followed was something that none of us at the rec center that day would ever forget.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>At least one person has asked about author's responding to a reviewer. If you review a story and want the author to respond, you must ensure "private messaging" isn't disabled in your ff. net account. If it is disabled, authors aren't able to respond privately to your reviews (attempts to do so are rejected).


	6. Chapter 6

The boys stood at the water's edge calling out Bobby's name and, even from my vantage point across the pool, I heard the panic in their voices. The lifeguard jumped out of his chair and rushed toward them, rescue buoy in hand. Several bathers in the water were staring and pointing toward the bottom of the pool. I followed their gaze and felt a knot form in the pit of my stomach. A body rested unmoving on the blue tile; I had no doubt it was Bobby Richards.

"Out of the way!" the lifeguard shouted, jumping feet first into the shallow water.

I pushed James Henry into Louisa's arms and hurried across the pool deck as quickly as I could, my dress shoes slipping on the slick tiled surface.

"Move aside!" I called, pushing through the onlookers who were quickly gathering into a small crowd.

I momentarily considered following the lifeguard into the water but decided my skills were best used once the boy was pulled out. I knelt at the side of the pool, feeling the water on the deck soak through the material of my trousers.

"What happened?" I asked one of the boys who was standing nearby. When he didn't immediately answer, I spoke more sternly. "I need to know. What was he doing?"

"He was diving," the boy said, trembling either from the cold or out of fear. "He said he could do it – he'd show us how."

They'd been playing in the shallow end of the pool, which meant that the boy had dived into little more than a meter of water. I didn't need to be a physician to understand the potential consequences.

The lifeguard surfaced with the boy in his arms. He slowly walked toward the wall while keeping Bobby's head above the water and, seconds later, was at the edge of the pool.

"Keep his back and neck straight," I called, reaching out to help bring him onto the deck. As the lifeguard hoisted the boy toward me, I put my hands under his shoulders and carefully pulled him out of the water, doing my best to keep his head, neck and spine in alignment. Once Bobby was flat on the deck, the lifeguard clambered out of the water and was quickly at my side.

"Bobby!" I shouted at him. "Can you hear me?"

The boy's eyes were closed; he was limp, unmoving and totally unresponsive. I gingerly tilted his head in order to open the airway. A glance at his chest revealed it wasn't rising or falling. I leaned over his face, nearly touching my ear to his mouth and held it there for almost a half-minute. There was no intake of breath, not even agonal breathing. Nothing at all. Bloody hell.

"Should I get the backboard?" the lifeguard asked. "Oxygen?"

I ignored him and, pressing my fingers to the boy's carotid, checked for a pulse. Still nothing. The knot in my stomach tightened. I pulled back his eyelids. Even without a light, I could see that the pupils were fixed and dilated.

I briefly let my own eyes close for an instant and let out a long breath, then looked up at the lifeguard, whose expression was haunted.

"Get a blanket," I ordered.

"To keep him warm?"

"To cover him. Get these people out of here and call P.C. Penhale."

"The police? You mean he's . . ."

"He's dead," I said quietly.

"Shouldn't we at least do CPR . . . or something?"

"No. He's beyond help." Given the nature of the injury, the lack of a pulse or breathing, CPR wasn't going to bring back Bobby Richards. The boy had obviously sustained a traumatic cervical fracture leading to spinal shock and virtually instantaneous death.

"No! He can't be." The lifeguard looked as if he wanted to vomit.

"Do as I say. Clear the pool, call P.C. Penhale, and get something to cover him. Now."

To his credit, the young lifeguard took charge of the situation. "All right everyone. Pool's closed. Everyone needs to leave." He started directing the onlookers toward the changing room and exits.

Louisa, a towel wrapped around her and still holding the baby, slipped through the crowd and made her way over to where I was still kneeling over the boy's body.

"Martin?" she asked with hesitation, and I saw her pull James Henry closer to her chest. "Is Bobby okay?"

I shook my head. "Cervical fracture. Probably hit his head on the bottom of the pool."

Her eyes widened in horror. "You mean he's . . .?"

"Yes."

"Oh my God. He's only twelve." She started to tremble and I stood up and put my arms around her. He'd been her student and my patient. There was nothing either of us could say.

We stood there like that for at least a minute when there was a commotion behind us.

"Bobby!" I turned to see Mrs. Richards rushing toward us. "Bobby!"

I let go of Louisa and quickly moved forward to intercept her. "Mrs. Richards." I held her out of sight of her son.

"Dr. Ellingham," she panted. "What happened to Bobby? The lifeguard said there'd been an accident." She tried to peer around me.

I blocked her view. "Yes, there was an accident."

She seemed to notice Louisa, who had tears running down her cheeks. Mrs. Richards looked from Louisa to me, her apprehension clearly increasing.

"What's wrong with my Bobby?" Her voice had turned shrill and she struggled in my grasp.

The lifeguard walked up, holding a blanket. He stood there, unsure of what to do. With a nod of my head, I indicated he should cover the body.

"Mrs. Richards," I said, softly. "Bobby dove into the shallow end of the pool and hit his head on the bottom."

Her eyes widened as she tried to process my words.

"Is he okay?" she asked shakily.

"No."

Her grip on my arms increased. "What do you mean?"

"Bobby sustained a cervical fracture. He broke his neck."

"Oh no." She swallowed hard several times. "But he's going to be alright, isn't he? You'll take care of him. Like you always do."

I shook my head and held her tighter. "Bobby's dead."

"No." She said it with certainty. "No he's not."

"I'm so sorry," Louisa said, approaching and touching Mrs. Richards' arm. "So very sorry."

Mrs. Richards' eyes remained fixated on mine. "You're wrong. He's perfectly healthy. You said so just last week."

The boy had indeed been perfectly healthy when I'd examined him a week ago. And now he was dead.

I simply stood there.

Mrs. Richards took a deep breath and seemed to steel herself. "Let me see him."

I shook my head. "I don't think—"

"I want to see him."

She'd have to see him at some point. I sighed and allowed her to push past me. She rushed over to where Bobby lay and dropped to her knees. The lifeguard, who'd been arranging the blanket, scrambled to his feet.

Mrs. Richards stroked her son's face. "Bobby. It's Mum. Bobby, wake up."

I felt Louisa move closer, until she was touching me. James Henry, asleep in her arms looked almost . . . I touched my hand to his face and then his neck, reassuring myself that our son was still alive.

"Bobby! Bobby!" Mrs. Richards' voice was more insistent. "Bobby, stop playing around. It's not funny." She shook his shoulder. "Open your eyes."

I let out a deep breath and felt Louisa's fingers grip my arm tightly.

The mother turned around and looked at me, eyes wide with terror. "Doc, help him! You've got to help him. Do _something_!"

I kept my voice soft. "There's nothing to be done."

She looked from my face to Bobby's and then, with a piercing wail, flung herself on her son. "No! Oh, Bobby, no!"

At that moment, Joe Penhale ran up, eyes taking in the scene. I briefly filled him in, sent him to retrieve my medical bag from the car and quietly suggested to Louisa that she take our son home.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "Maybe I could sit with Mrs. Richards—"

I shook my head. "No. You need to take care of James. I'll stay here until the medical examiner arrives," I added, "and get a ride back with Penhale."

Within a few minutes, Penhale had returned with my bag and Louisa had left. Mrs. Richards continued to moan, still visibly distraught. Staying within sight of her dead child wasn't helping matters. I turned to the lifeguard. "Is there a room where the mother can wait?"

"Yeah, we have an office. I'll show you."

Mrs. Richards resisted my efforts to lead her away. "Bobby needs me. I can't leave him alone," she said, trying to pull away from me.

"P.C. Penhale will stay with him," I said, looking at the man for confirmation.

"Absolutely. I'll stay here until the . . . until, um . . ." He took a deep breath. "I'll just wait here."

The rec center's office was small, impersonal and cramped, with a desk, two chairs and sofa taking up most of the available floor space. Still, at this point, it was better than the alternatives.

"It's all my fault. I shouldn't have let him swim alone," Mrs. Richards kept repeating as the lifeguard and I led her to the sofa and helped her lie down. "It's my fault he's . . ." She sniffed. "Oh, God help me."

When she continued to cry and berate herself, I pulled a syringe and vial of diazepam from my bag. She didn't even seem to notice when I gave her the injection. However, within a few minutes, her cries turned to murmurs and, finally, she closed her eyes.

I knew that, when she awakened, the horror of her son's death would still be there. But, for a few hours at least, she would have the peace of drug-induced sleep.

* * *

><p>It was early afternoon when I let myself into our home. I tried to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake James, who was probably taking his nap. At least he was oblivious to the tragedy of the morning.<p>

I found Louisa in our bedroom, flipping through a magazine with obvious disinterest. When she saw me, she put aside her reading material, an anxious expression on her face.

"How's Mrs. Richards?" she asked.

I shrugged. "About as you'd expect."

Louisa closed her eyes and shook her head. "Oh, Martin, I can't even imagine what she's going through. To lose your child like that."

I pulled off my jacket. "She blames herself for the boy's death, as she rightly should."

Louisa frowned at me. "Martin! How can you say that?"

"A twelve-year-old boy should know better than to dive headfirst into shallow water. Why didn't his mother teach him?"

"Maybe she did."

"Then why did he do it?"

"Sometimes children don't listen or pay attention to their parents . . . or their teachers."

"This isn't taking turns on the playground, Louisa. When you're talking about life and death, you have to make them listen, don't you?"

I pulled off my stained trousers and added them to the pile that would need to go to the dry cleaners. "Not to mention that she left him alone, unsupervised. What was she thinking?" I shook my head in frustration. Bobby Richards should be lying at home in his bed tonight, not in the morgue.

"You didn't say all that to her, did you?"

I scowled at her. "Of course not."

"It was an accident. A terrible accident."

I walked into the lavatory and washed my hands. "It didn't need to happen. Damn it, Louisa, it shouldn't have happened."

I knew that, at some level, I was being irrational, reacting as a father rather than a doctor to the death of Bobby Richards. I wanted to believe that his death could have been prevented because I wanted to believe I could prevent harm from ever coming to my own son. And knew that I couldn't.

I'd seen children die before, both in my days as a surgeon and even here in Portwenn. I thought I'd understood the agony of the parents when it happened. Today, however, had been a raw experience, watching Mrs. Richards' naked grief and overwhelming guilt. It reminded me of the terror I'd felt when Mrs. Tishell had kidnapped my son. Just when I'd convinced myself I would never feel that helpless again, the circumstances of Bobby's death reminded me of just how little I could control, even when it came to my own child.

When I returned to the bedroom, Louisa had nestled under the sheets. Even though it was the middle of the day, I slid into bed beside her, allowing her body to curl into mine.

"I still can't believe it," she said. "It's so . . . awful. Standing there, seeing him like that, I couldn't help but think of James Henry—"

I reached for her hand and squeezed it. "Don't."

"I never knew that I could love someone so much."

"I know."

"I've checked on him almost every hour since we got home. I know I'm crazy—"

"You're not crazy." I didn't tell her that I had half a mind to walk into the nursery right now to be sure he was fine.

"Mrs. Richards is a good mother and look what happened to Bobby. We can't always protect him, Martin."

I rubbed my hand along her arm. "Sshh."

I could feel her starting to cry and knew she was crying not only for Bobby Richards but for the helplessness of knowing that, no matter how hard you tried, you couldn't keep your child from harm. I wrapped my arms more tightly around her and fought against my own tears.

* * *

><p>Medical Glossary<p>

diazepam - the generic name for Valium. An anti-anxiety drug.


	7. Chapter 7

After the unfortunate episode with Bobby Richards, I suddenly found myself wanting to spend even more time with James Henry. Whereas in the past, I'd stop in if I had a long break in my consultations, now, even if I had only a few minutes between patients, I'd make my way into the living quarters. If James were awake, I'd join in whatever he was doing and, if he were napping, I'd at least step into his room and assure myself he was fine.

Today I was lucky in that, during my afternoon break, I found James sitting on the floor surrounded by a number of cloth and plastic toys. I counted a train, an elephant, a dog, a tiger, a spinning top, a truck, a boat, and two cars, along with a number of blocks covered with various letters of the alphabet. According to Louisa, he'd awakened from his afternoon nap only a short time ago, so was in a particularly good mood and anxious to play.

Louisa sat on the ground next to him, showing him each toy and identifying it by name. "This is a tiger. The tiger growls liked this – 'Grrrrr'." This caused James Henry to giggle and smile at her and I couldn't stop a tiny smile from appearing on my own lips.

"And this is a train," she said, holding it up for him to see. "Choo-choo. Choo-choo." James reached for the train and twisted it around in his hands.

Louisa glanced up at me and gave me a wide smile. "James, look, it's your daddy."

It was hard to explain the pleasure that rolled through me when my son turned his head and seemed to smile at the sight of me.

"Good afternoon, James," I said. I knelt down and, after arranging my trousers and jacket to minimize wrinkling, seated myself next to both him and Louisa. I took the train from her hands.

"Did you mum show you how the train rides along?" I asked. James, of course, only looked at me, probably wondering what I might do to his toy. I rolled the train along the rug, back and forth, then put his hand on it, helping him roll it.

"Choo-choo," Louisa called out as James and I rolled it forward. James narrowed his eyes and focused on the movement. Once I had his attention, I took the train and put it in front of him upside down. This time when we tried to roll it, it didn't move and James banged his hand up and down in frustration on the now immobile toy.

"Let's turn it right," I said, upending the train so that it was now back on its wheels. Once again we moved it back and forth.

"There you go!" Louisa said in encouragement. "Good job, James."

I tried the activity a few more times, hoping to show James the difference between the toy being upside down and right side up. Even though, I wasn't sure he understood the concepts, I enjoyed the feel of my large and rough hand covering his tiny, soft one and together making that stupid train roll across the carpet. A quick glance at my watch told me that our playtime was up – time to get back to my patients.

"All right, James, I'll leave you to your mum," I said, rising to my feet and straightening out my suit. "Sorry, I need to get back to the surgery. I have a full afternoon of consultations." Strange as it might have seemed to me a year ago, I would rather have spent the next few hours playing with a baby – my son – than seeing patients in my surgery. Nonetheless, duty called.

"Thank you, Martin," Louisa said, smiling up at me.

"For what?"

"For taking the time to play with him. He really enjoys playing with his dad."

"Yes, well, you're the teacher. You're much better at this than I am."

"It's not what you do with him, it's that you want to spend time with him."

"Of course I do. Why wouldn't I?"

"I . . . you . . . never mind." She gave me an exasperated sigh and I decided that, even now, after living with Louisa for almost a year, there were times when I didn't understand her. Or she me, for that matter. There were times when we would just have to agree to see the world differently, and I imagined we weren't the only couple who had to deal with that.

I walked through the passageway into the waiting room to find Morwenna chatting with Mrs. Walker. Bursitis, I reminded myself, and Lord knew what other ailments the woman had come up with since I'd last seen her.

"And how is your grandfather?" Mrs. Walker asked Morwenna. "He used to come to the rec center for bridge, but I haven't seen him in months."

"Getting along fine, thanks for asking. Got a bit of trouble with arthritis now and again so it's hard for him to get out as much as he'd like."

"I was getting worried when I didn't see him. He's such a lovely man. Such a gentleman," Mrs. Walker added, giving me a pointed stare.

"Well right now, Grandpa's all excited about a reunion coming up next month in Southhamptom – I think it's his mates from the war. He was in the RAF, you know."

"Oh, I just love reunions."

I tuned out the conversation as I went into the kitchen to pour myself a cup of tea. By the time I returned, the two women were still talking, although the subject of the conversation had changed.

"I still can't believe it about Bobby Richards," Mrs. Walker was now saying. "So sad."

"Yeah, breaking his neck. Who would have thought? And his mum being right there when it happened."

Mrs. Walker clucked her tongue. "I can't even imagine. It must have been terribly hard on her."

"Definitely."

"I haven't seen her since the funeral. How's she doing?"

"Not so good," Morwenna replied. "You know the doc had to sedate her when it happened." She lowered her voice. "And he's had to visit her almost every day since, poor thing."

"Morwenna!" I strode over to the desk and grabbed Mrs. Walker's notes. "Mrs. Walker, go through."

The older woman seemed disappointed and, giving me a dour look, made her way into my consulting room. As soon as she was out of earshot, I turned on my receptionist.

"Morwenna, you know better to discuss my patients with other patients."

Her expression made clear that she thought I was the one who was crazy. "Bobby's dead."

"His mother isn't." I put steel in my voice. "She's my patient and her medical condition is not to be a topic of discussion with anyone. Is that clear?"

"Doc, it's not like I'm not passing on anything I learned here. Ted, the lifeguard, told me what happened at the pool. And I was only guessing about the other."

"It doesn't matter. My surgery isn't a venue for gossip or speculation. If you can't handle that, find someplace else to work." Without waiting for a reply, I headed into my consulting room and the loquacious Mrs. Walker.

* * *

><p>That evening, as I was closing up the surgery, there was a loud knock at the front door. With a grunt, I went to open it, prepared to tell whoever was on the other side that, unless they were dying, they could come back in the morning when the surgery reopened.<p>

I was surprised to see Ethan Brown at my doorstep. He seemed smothered in his grey wool overcoat and shifted nervously from one foot to the other.

"I know it's after hours, Doctor, but I wondered if I might have a quick word with you."

I had a pretty good idea what he wanted to discuss and that this was one issue I'd need to stay late to deal with. "Yes, of course. Come through," I said, ushering him inside and directing him through to the consulting room.

After closing the door, I took a seat behind my desk and waited as Brown pulled off his coat and scarf. He wasn't wearing his usual suit and, instead, sported casual trousers and a pullover. Given how fastidious Brown had always been about his appearance, I was surprised the trousers had a stain running down one leg and the pullover was frayed at the sleeve.

Brown slowly lowered himself into the chair. "You've no doubt spoken to Dr. Ramsey," he started.

The pulmonologist. "Yes. I read her consultant's report and then spoke to her by phone. She told me she'd gone over the biopsy results with you. I'm sorry the news wasn't better."

"How long do I have?"

It was the question patients in Brown's position typically asked and one that I was usually ill-equipped to answer with the precision they wanted. "I'm sure Dr. Ramsey discussed with you the stage of your disease and the various treatment options—"

Brown raised a hand to stop me. "Yes, she went over everything in excruciating detail. Stage 4 non-small cell lung cancer. Which means that, even if I let them poison me for the next however many months, I'm still going to die much sooner than I'd like. What I want to know is, if I do nothing, if I skip the chemo and radiation, how long do I have?"

It was obvious that Brown understood the severity of his condition; his cancer was too far advanced for surgery to be effective. Thus, the only treatment option was a combination of chemotherapy and radiation that would hopefully slow the progression of the disease by a few months, if he were lucky. As for how long he would live . . . some patients tolerated chemotherapy well and lived for up to a year. Others were dead in less than a month.

I let out a breath. "It's hard to predict—"

"Try."

"There's evidence of metastasis to the liver." I sighed. "Dr. Ramsey said she told you that, with aggressive treatment started immediately, six months is possible. Without treatment . . . two months, maybe less."

He exhaled with resignation and I guessed that my answer had been in line with what the pulmonologist had said.

"What would you do?" he asked.

"Do?"

"Would you have the chemo and all that?"

"I can't say. There's no way I could—"

"I know. There's no way you can understand my exact position and you aren't me so there's no way you can . . . blah, blah, blah. Let me put it this way, Dr. Ellingham. Suppose someone told you today that you were going to die a miserable and painful death with cancer eating away at your body. Before that happens, you could spend a month or more in reasonably decent health with your wife, eking out what little pleasure might remain. Or you could spend six months mostly in a hospital hooked up to IVs getting weaker and weaker while she watches you lose your hair, develop sores, and puke your guts out every day. Now all I'm asking is which would you do?"

As his GP, I should encourage him to accept the treatment. It could give him longer than six months and, during that time, new therapies might come to light.

But the man had asked my opinion. I couldn't imagine myself lying in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines and tubes, fighting nausea and mouth sores, unable to enjoy anything from food to sex while Louisa sat next to me and held the emesis basin, changed my soaked and soiled bedclothes . . .

No, it was too horrible to imagine, and I found myself giving the answer from Martin Ellingham, not Dr. Ellingham. "I'd probably opt for the two months without treatment."

"Thank you. For being honest." He sat there silently for nearly a minute, then leaned forward and stared straight into my eyes. "You won't say anything about my condition to my Judy? You won't' tell my wife about my . . . about the cancer."

I couldn't completely hide my astonishment. "You haven't told her?" I could understand not wanting his clients to know but his wife? Surely she was bound to find out – and probably sooner rather than later.

"Told her what? That she married some old guy just to find out six months later that he's going to die on her before the year is out."

"She will . . . even without treatment, there will be symptoms." To experienced eyes such as my own, there already were in Brown's pallor, loss of weight, and lack of energy.

"I know that. And I'll deal with it in my way and in my own time."

"Right." It was, after all, his choice.

"I don't want you to say anything to her about this. Nothing at all." Brown's voice rose as if he'd suddenly found some inner strength. "Within my rights of confidentiality, I'm ordering you not to say a thing about my condition to anyone. Is that clear?"

My expression made clear that I had no issues with patient confidentiality. "There'll be no problems here."

He nodded, and dropped back into the chair. "Good." He let loose a long breath. "Good."

* * *

><p>Medical Glossary<p>

Stage 4 lung cancer: Most, if not all, cancers are staged. Lung cancer has four stages, some with sub-stages (e.g., Stage 3A). Stage 4 is the most severe and indicates the cancer has spread beyond the lungs. At this point, it is treatable (with chemo and radiation) but is no longer considered curable.


	8. Chapter 8

As I walked into the waiting room a few days later to exchange out notes for those of my next patient, I saw a man talking to Morwenna, his back to me. I almost did a double take. For a brief moment, I thought Danny Steele had returned and wondered what the hell he was doing in my surgery.

"Here's the Doc," Morwenna called out and, when the man turned around, I saw that it wasn't Steele but rather the new chemist, Mr. Pruitt. Dressed in trousers that were clean but probably hadn't been pressed for several days and a knitted brown jersey that hung loosely over an ill-fitting dress shirt, he looked more like a university student than a medical professional. I reminded myself that he wasn't long out of pharmacy school and probably hadn't had the money or opportunity to purchase proper business attire.

"Ah, Doctor Ellingham." The man's silly, lopsided grin was also eerily familiar. "Good to see you again."

I gave him an appraising look. "What are you doing here? Are you ill?" He wasn't on my consultation list, so I wasn't entirely sure what the chemist was doing in my surgery in the middle of the day.

"Who me?" He chuckled softly and stood upright, squaring his shoulders. "Nope. Fit as a fiddle. But if that changes I'll be sure to come see you. Morwenna says you're the best GP in Portwenn."

What an idiot. "I'm the only GP in Portwenn."

He frowned at my reply. "Right."

"So why are you here?" I asked him again.

Morwenna pointed to several full shopping bags on the floor. "Nate brought over the medical supplies I ordered for the surgery," she said in an obvious effort to remain professional. "You know, the ones you signed off on a couple of days ago."

I kept my gaze on Pruitt. "I didn't know you delivered."

He smiled again. "Normally I don't. But it's not a long walk and it gives me the chance to get out and meet the folks in the village and . . ." I could have sworn that the man blushed. "I get another opportunity to say hello to Morwenna."

I rolled my eyes as I glanced into the bags. Was it even possible in this village to have a receptionist who wasn't having romantic liaisons with some young man that played out in the waiting room of my surgery?

"So, have you?" I asked, looking pointedly at Pruitt.

"Have I what?"

"Have you said hello?" I replied, enunciating each word.

He stared at me curiously. "Uh, yeah."

"Then you can leave." I reached out a hand towards Morwenna. "Notes for my next patient."

Morwenna gave me a pointed sigh and an exasperated look before she handed me the packet. "Thomas Elderson. Said he was having trouble going. Going to the loo, that is."

"Morwenna!" I gave her an icy glare. For God's sake. Once again she was talking about patient's medical conditions in front of others. Even if Pruitt was the chemist and, for the moment, thankfully the only person in the waiting room, it wasn't right.

"Oh, sorry." She giggled at Pruitt. "Forget you heard that."

Pruitt bowed formally. "I can promise you, Doctor, I'm the soul of discretion."

Good God; between the gossip and the flirting, it was like a television serial around here.

"You." I nodded at Pruitt. "Leave. And you." I switched my gaze to Morwenna. "Get back to work putting away these supplies."

* * *

><p>My last patient before lunch was listed as "Mrs. Brown," a new patient who had declined to specify the nature of her medical complaint. There were several Mrs. Browns in the village. This one turned out to be a tall blonde in an expensive and fashionable suit whom I immediately recognized as the woman who'd been sitting next to Ethan Brown at the secondary school musical.<p>

"Dr. Ellingham." Her hazel eyes flashed at me. "We've not met formally before. I'm Judith Brown, Ethan's wife."

I nodded her into a chair. "Take a seat."

Judith Brown was razor thin and her legs had the tone that came from taking regular exercise. Her hair was cut short, exposing a narrow face with aristocratic features and a celebrity nose that may well have been surgically created. She slid into the chair and carefully crossed her knees, exposing just enough thigh to be interesting to most men, yet not so much as to be considered inappropriate. Even I had to admit that she exuded a certain confidence matched with sensuality.

"How can I help you?" I asked, carefully keeping my eyes on her face.

"I know Ethan has come to see you several times in the past weeks. At first, I assumed it was about that blasted cough but—"

I held up a hand. "Mrs. Brown, I can't discuss his medical situation with you."

She frowned. "But he's my husband."

"Yes, he is. And he's also my patient and I don't discuss my patients with anyone." I started to rise. "Now, if there is nothing else—"

She dropped her handbag onto the floor and sighed heavily. "I know why he's been to see you."

I reluctantly reseated myself and raised my eyebrows, allowing her to continue.

"Ethan thinks that I'm desperate to have a baby and he's worried that he's too old to . . . father a child. That his sperm aren't viable or he doesn't have enough or whatever."

I kept my expression carefully neutral. "He told you this?"

"Well, not in so many words." She gave me an appraising look. "You know that I'm quite a bit younger than Ethan?"

I nodded, staring down at her still-blank patient notes card. "Yes."

"He thinks that, at my age, I must want children and he's afraid that, if we can't have them, I won't love him anymore or maybe even that I'll leave him for a younger man." She edged forward in her chair. "But you see, Dr. Ellingham, I don't care about having children. I married Ethan because I love _him_; being with him is more than enough for me."

Not sure how I was supposed to respond or even if I was supposed to respond, I remained silent.

"I know what this blasted village is saying about us – and about me especially. They love to gossip."

With that, I wholeheartedly agreed. However, it wasn't my place to show any reaction and I allowed no sign of emotion to cross my features.

"Most of them think I married Ethan for his money. If only they knew the truth. You see, my parents are quite well off and I'm their only child. I work at the church because I want to, not because I need to." She took a breath and once again I marveled at the willingness of my patients to discuss with me their entire life story in a single sitting. "The rest of the village is convinced he's in some midlife crisis," she continued, "trying to recapture his youth. If I make him feel younger, what's wrong with that? We do things together. We run, we cycle, we go to crazy school plays. We have fun. Why is it so bad that we're happy?"

"It's not."

"I'll be more than satisfied if that's all we ever have, if it's just the two of us."

"Have you told him that?"

"Of course I have. Only I'm not sure he believes it. So I don't want him going through some sort of elaborate fertility tests or treatment so that I can have a baby." She tilted her head as if gauging my response to her diatribe. "I don't mean to sound dictatorial, Doctor. I just wanted you to know that, if he's doing this, it's his idea not mine, because he thinks he's making me happy. But he doesn't have to."

"You've made that point quite clear."

"Blast. I've probably said too much. It's just that I know he's consulted you and that he trusts you. So I thought if I explained my situation to you—" she grabbed her handbag and stood up from the chair. "Never mind. I've already taken too much of your time and I'm sure you have other patients waiting. My apologies, Doctor."

As I also rose to my feet, I couldn't help but feel as if a whirlwind had just rushed through my consulting room. I'd been prepared to dislike Mrs. Brown sight unseen, if for no other reason than I couldn't imagine why a woman her age would marry a man more than twenty years her senior. After listening to her for only a few minutes, I realized there was one. Love. If people as opposite as Louisa and I could find happiness, then there was certainly hope for others, like the Browns who, in their own and somewhat baffling way, clearly loved one another.

And both of them would lose this newfound love before the summer was out. Except Mrs. Brown didn't yet know it and I was prevented by my ethical obligations from telling her. Damn her husband for keeping her in the dark and damn him for prohibiting me from saying anything. Mrs. Brown seemed like a strong woman; surely, she'd be better off knowing of her husband's condition.

I called out to her retreating back. "Mrs. Brown, maybe you should discuss your husband's medical situation with him."

She turned at the door, an expression of confusion crossing her features. "His medical situation?"

"Yes. You came here to discuss your husband's medical situation with me. You should really discuss it with him."

It was as much as I dared say. She was a smart woman. Was she smart enough to read between the lines so that she could be the strong support that Ethan Brown would need in the months to come? It was a lot to ask, to stand by a dying man.

I escorted her out of my consulting room and watched as she wandered over toward Morwenna's desk. I passed by, telling Morwenna that I needed a few minutes before the next patient. Louisa had gone to Truro for the afternoon to do some shopping, leaving James Henry with the sitter. I walked outside, oblivious to the fact that a light rain was falling. I took a cleansing breath, pulled my mobile from my breast pocket, and dialed.

"Louisa," I said when she answered.

"Martin." There was a sharp intake of breath. "Is something wrong with the baby?"

"No, no. Nothing's wrong," I quickly assured her.

"Then why are you calling me?"

"I wanted . . . I just wanted to tell you . . ."

"Yes, Martin." She sounded impatient and, in the background I could hear a shop clerk asking her a question.

"I wanted to wish you a good day."

"Uh, thank you, Martin. That's very sweet of you."

In the distance, thunder cracked loudly and the rain started to fall harder. A storm was coming. I took a deep breath. "And I wanted to . . ."

There was silence on the other end.

"Tell you that . . . I love you."

There was no reply.

"Louisa? Louisa? Can you hear me?"

I looked down at my mobile, saw the call had been dropped and then gazed skyward and cursed aloud.


	9. Chapter 9

It had been a long night, during which I'd been called out twice to make home visits. The first time was for Mrs. Spooner, a widowed pensioner with a bad case of pneumonia who had panicked when she started to have difficulty breathing. I'd given her a nebulizer and arranged for her to see me the next morning in the surgery. If her condition worsened, I'd consider admitting her to hospital. I'd no sooner returned home and dropped off to sleep than I was called to see a seven-year-old, whose mother thought she had appendicitis but whom I'd diagnosed with a severe case of overindulgence in sweets. And, with James Henry being unusually fussy throughout the night from his teething, I'd not managed more than three hours sleep by the time the alarm sounded in the morning.

As a result, I was less tolerant than usual of patients who wanted to chat, who didn't get to the point of their medical complaint or, as was the case with my current patient, who didn't like my recommended course of treatment.

"Mrs. Everson, I'm going to refer you to a gynecologist in Truro." I signed off on the referral slip.

"Oh, goodness. That's such a long way to drive and then having to wait half the day for the consultation. Can't you just give me the pill? You know," she lowered her voice, "the contraceptive pill. Mildred Hanover had the same problem I did and her GP gave her the pill. She said it fixed her right up in no time."

Why was it that my patients always assumed their condition was identical to that of someone else and therefore were convinced that the same treatment was indicated? I didn't know Mildred whatever her surname was and, in any event, her condition was irrelevant to that of Mrs. Everson, now seated in my consulting room.

"As I already explained to you," I replied, my patience quickly ebbing, "there can be any number of reasons for heavy menstrual bleeding in a woman your age."

I looked up at the sound of loud voices coming from my waiting room.

"Most of them aren't serious," I continued, ignoring the noise. "Nonetheless, the condition needs to be investigated by a gynecological specialist, which is why I'm referring you to Truro."

As a GP I could, and occasional did, provide routine gynecological care. However, differential diagnosis of a potential reproductive disorder was tricky for someone without significant experience. In my years as a surgical consultant, I'd always bristled at GPs who thought they knew as much about an area within my expertise as I did and now, as a GP myself, was loathe to make the same mistake. In this case, no matter what I found, I'd want a second opinion and there was no need to subject Mrs. Everson to two examinations given that I'd invariably defer to the consultant's findings.

The voices in the waiting room were getting louder such that even Mrs. Everson turned her head as if she could see through the door to what was happening on the other side. Where the hell was Morwenna and why wasn't she keeping things under control?

I stood up and handed Mrs. Everson the referral slip. "I recommend you make an appointment straight away." My attention was divided between whatever was going on next door and making sure I followed up completely with my current patient. "The consultant will send me a report."

She sighed with the resignation of patients who didn't get what they'd expected from me. "Yes, Doctor."

I walked her to the door. The instant I crossed the threshold, I could clearly hear the gist of the heated discussion in the waiting room.

"I want to see him now!" It was a man's voice.

"I've already told you," Morwenna replied, her voice also rising. "He's fully booked with consultations until three o'clock. If you like, I can make an appointment for you then."

"After what he's done, he'd best see me now or the next person I'll be consulting is my solicitor." The words were followed by the sound of a hacking cough.

Now that the door was fully open, I could see that the source of the shouting was Ethan Brown. The man stood menacingly over Morwenna's desk, his body nearly shaking with what I took to be anger. His face was flushed and, pointing his finger at my receptionist, he cut an intimidating presence. It was obvious that Morwenna was trying to stand her ground but was slowly being overwhelmed.

I wasn't so easily cowed. "Brown, what the hell are you doing?" I asked, stepping toward him, not caring about the effect of my comments on the handful of other patients in the waiting room. I was in charge of this surgery and I wouldn't have a disruptive patient threatening my receptionist or creating a ruckus.

He turned at the sound of my voice. "Ellingham! About time you showed up. I want a word with you right now."

"Doc, I told him you were full up all morning," Morwenna said, sitting up straighter in her chair, clearly relieved finally to have my support.

"It's all right, Morwenna," I said, not taking my eyes from Brown. I'd known the man off and on for years. He wasn't usually violent or even volatile; and while I had no idea why he was so worked up, the issue was clearly of importance to him. It was also not something I wanted discussed in front of Morwenna or my other patients.

To Brown I said, "Come through." I turned on my heel and walked toward my consulting room, leaving him to trail behind me. I stopped at the door and allowed him to proceed me into the room. "Take a seat."

Brown remained standing, breathing heavily. "Explain yourself, Ellingham. How the bloody hell could you do it?"

I moved to stand behind my desk and struggled to keep my own voice level. "Mr. Brown, I have no idea what you're talking about. Now sit down, calm down, and tell me what has you so upset."

"How could you tell her?"

I shook my head in confusion. "Tell who what?"

"I asked you, ordered you, begged you not to tell her." His voice had almost turned into a whine. "I told you it was for me to do, in my own time."

We stood facing each other, he panting with fury and I with what I knew was a vacant expression on my face. "Mr. Brown, what _are_ you talking about?"

He sucked in a deep breath, which caused him to start coughing again. "Judy." Another cough. "You told Judy about my . . . about my cancer. You promised you wouldn't tell her."

What in the world? "I've done no such thing."

"She came to see you the other day, didn't she?"

"Yes." There was no reason to deny that she'd visited my surgery, although that was as far as I would go.

"She wanted to find out about me."

"I don't discuss my patients with anyone. And that includes with husbands and wives."

He coughed again, then cleared his throat with a frightening gurgle. "She came to see you about me and you told her I was dying."

I handed him a tissue. "Mr. Brown, would you please _sit_ _down_!" I vowed to remain standing until he complied. After a long minute he finally did so, and I took my seat as well.

"Mr. Brown, for reasons of patient confidentiality, I can't discuss why your wife consulted me. However, I can tell you that, for those very same reasons, I said nothing to her about your medical condition. Not about your disease or your prognosis. Absolutely nothing."

"You did."

"No."

"You must have."

I shook my head. "I did not."

That seemed to stop him and he frowned. "Well, someone told her because she knows. She knows I have lung cancer and she knows I'm dying. You and I are the only ones in Portwenn who know. And since I didn't tell her . . ."

I'd only suggested that Mrs. Brown consult her husband about his medical situation – there was no way she could have inferred her husband's disease or prognosis from my comments. And I hadn't said anything about Mr. Brown's condition to anyone, not even Louisa. The pulmonology consultant of course was aware of the situation but she was in Truro. She too was bound by patient confidentiality and I couldn't imagine that she would have spoken to Mrs. Brown or that she even knew there was a Mrs. Brown. What in the hell had happened?

There was no time to figure it out now with an obviously distraught patient sitting in front of me. I tried another tack. "Mr. Brown, I have no idea how your wife learned of your condition other than it wasn't from me. But maybe it's for the better. She was bound to find out eventually and now the two of you can deal with it together."

"I just wanted us to have a few weeks to enjoy ourselves – to go places and do things without _this_ hanging over our heads. Now it's all she thinks of. She's constantly asking me if I'm okay, if I'm tired, if I want to rest. It's like I'm an invalid. It's not fair!"

"No, it's not." And it wasn't. Brown had deserved to tell his wife of his condition how and when he wanted to.

He looked up at me, despair etched on his face. "You really didn't tell her?"

"No I didn't."

"I just assumed . . . I figured it had to be you." He took a deep breath and coughed. "I believe you, Dr. Ellingham. You can be a tosser at times but you're an honest tosser, I'll give you that."

I took some small comfort in his words. Still, it was a situation that shouldn't have happened and, despite the fact that I was innocent, I nonetheless felt responsible. Responsible that, in Brown's final days, he wasn't given the tiny bit of happiness and contentment that he'd so desperately sought.

Brown coughed, and then wiped his hand along his forehead. I resisted the urge to ask him if he was all right, as we both knew he wasn't and there wasn't a bloody thing I could do about it.

He seemed to have calmed down enough so that we could talk briefly about the progress of his disease and options for hospice care. To my surprise, I found myself feeling sorry for him, his wife – for the entire situation.

A few minutes later, I ushered him out of my consulting room, thankfully calmer and more subdued than when he'd entered. I, on the other hand, was furious. Somehow, Mrs. Brown had learned the details – very specific details – of her husband's condition and I couldn't help wonder how that had happened.

"Ready for the next patient, Doc?" Morwenna called out.

And the more I thought about the situation, the more I was beginning to suspect I might have the answer.

"Doc?"

I ignored her and slammed the door.

"Guess that's a no then," I heard her say as the door banged shut.


	10. Chapter 10

A few minutes later, I opened the consulting room door. Morwenna was still at her desk, working on the computer.

She glanced up at me. "Need something, Doc?"

I kept my voice level. "I need to see you. In here."

She frowned at me and nodded at the full waiting room. "You've got patients."

And I was running late. And I didn't care. "Now!"

Several patients jerked around at the bark in my voice. I ignored them and waited for Morwenna to come through. By the time she entered the consulting room, I was again seated at my desk, forcing myself to remain calm.

"Shut the door."

For the first time, I saw signs of trepidation in her eyes. "Right." She closed the door and remained standing just inside it. "Something wrong?"

"Morwenna, I want you to listen to my next question very carefully. And, whatever you do, don't lie to me."

She shrugged. "Sure, Doc."

"Did you tell Judith Brown that her husband has terminal lung cancer?"

When her mouth dropped open, my eyes involuntarily closed for an instant and my gut clenched into a fist. "Morwenna?"

"Well, yeah, we talked about it."

"Think carefully. Did she know or did you tell her?"

For a few seconds, Morwenna chewed on her lip. "I . . . I was talking to her and . . . I guess I might have said something about it, not really sure. I assumed she knew, it being her husband and all."

Bloody hell. "Well she didn't know." My voice snapped like a whip. "In fact, her husband specifically instructed me not to tell her. He didn't want her to know."

"I didn't . . . oh my God. Doc, I'm so sorry."

It was all I could do to keep my anger in check and I wasn't doing a very good job of it. "What _exactly_ did you say to Mrs. Brown and when?"

"It was when she was leaving the other day, after seeing you. I said I was sorry about her husband. That it was a real drag him getting lung cancer now that he'd stopped smoking and all."

Could this get any worse? "How did _you_ know about Mr. Brown's medical condition?" Where had she obtained her information given that I hadn't said anything to her?

"I read the consultant's report before I filed it. Looked up the words I didn't know on the Internet." She seemed rather proud of herself.

I, on the other hand, was disgusted. "Morwenna, what is the matter with you? How many times have I told you about the critical importance of patient confidentiality?"

She shrugged. "A lot?"

"That you can share with no one the information you're privy to in this surgery," I continued, ignoring her outburst. "What part of 'no one' didn't you understand?"

"I didn't think—"

"No, you didn't think. You didn't think that maybe Mr. Brown had not informed his wife about his condition. You didn't think that he specifically did not want her to know. He had every right to expect that I . . . that this surgery would respect his decision."

I could see her legs starting to shake and didn't care in the least.

"By informing Mrs. Brown of her husband's condition, you breached patient confidentiality and in doing so have created great consternation for Mr. and Mrs. Brown and have put me in legal jeopardy as well. Proud of yourself?"

"Doc, I didn't mean to . . ."

I stood up from my chair, towering over her. "I don't care what you meant. There's nothing more important than respecting the confidentiality of my patients. And you are obviously incapable of doing that."

"I said I was sorry . . ."

"I'm not interested in your apology. Pack up your things and get out."

She shook her head, earrings dangling wildly. "You're sacking me?"

"I want you out of this surgery before I see the next patient."

"Doc, please!"

I sat back down and grabbed a patient notes card. "Shut the door on your way out."

"Doc?" Her voice was almost a whisper.

I didn't look up. After a moment, I heard the door to my consulting room open and then softly close.

* * *

><p>A short time later I joined Louisa and James Henry for lunch. She was already feeding James from small bowls that looked to contain pureed asparagus and peaches. Laid out for me on a plate was turkey on rye, with lettuce and tomato. No cheese or mayonnaise.<p>

"Louisa," I said, touching my hand briefly to the baby's forehead before taking a seat at the table. Whatever had caused his crankiness the night before, it didn't appear to be fever or illness. "How is James Henry?" Our son smiled as he swallowed the spoonful of food Louisa had given him, some of it spilling over the sides of his mouth.

"He's fine, aren't you, young man?" Louisa answered. "He had a nice bath, and I thought this afternoon we'd go to the market, maybe pick up some fish for dinner."

I glanced out the window. "Weather's a bit nippy."

"No worry; I'll bundle him up." She wiped a large smudge of food off his face and I took several bites of my sandwich.

"I saw Morwenna leave about an hour ago," Louisa said a minute later. "She looked quite distressed."

I wiped my mouth with my napkin. "Probably because I dismissed her."

Louisa's eyes went wide with surprise. "You dismissed her? Martin, why? I thought you were quite happy with her."

I wasn't in a mood to discuss this morning's activities. "She breached patient confidentiality," I reported succinctly.

Louisa gave me the look that indicated she expected me to share a bit more. I sighed. "One of my patients has a terminal illness and didn't want his wife to know. Morwenna told her."

"Oh dear. Why would she do that?"

I rolled my eyes. "Because she's an incompetent imbecile."

"Martin!"

"Then how should I know? Maybe it's because Morwenna, like everyone else in this village, loves to gossip."

"That's not true!" Louisa was getting defensive as she usually did when I took issue with anything or anyone having to do with Portwenn.

"Isn't it?" I responded. "They gossip about me, about you, about us, about anything and everything. It's like an addiction. Normally, it's only annoying. However, Morwenna gossiping about my patients is intolerable."

"Surely she didn't mean to."

Typical Louisa. I never could comprehend why she insisted in looking for the best in people, even when they engaged in the most moronic and even self-destructive behavior.

"She didn't mean to!" I couldn't prevent my voice from rising. "Louisa, there are consequences for stupid behavior. Bobby Richards didn't mean to dive in to shallow water and break his neck but he did and now he's dead."

"Martin, aren't you being a little harsh?"

Now it was my turn to be defensive. "Why is it always my fault?" Why couldn't Louisa understand my position? I hadn't wanted to dismiss Morwenna but, given her conduct, had no choice.

"I'm not saying it's your fault."

"Yes, you are."

"No I'm not."

This verbal sparring was getting us nowhere. Why did Louisa always conclude that the blame for any situation or decision she disagreed with rested with me? Why was it so difficult to comprehend that I couldn't retain a receptionist who, despite some talents, represented a professional and legal liability? And, why couldn't she respect the fact that, while the two of us shared responsibility for decisions involving our home and our son, decisions regarding the surgery were mine alone?

It was so frustrating. No, I corrected myself, it was infuriating. "Instead of being combative with me," I said, voice again rising, "I thought you might actually support my decision."

James was now starting to cry, either because he wasn't used to his parents arguing or, more likely, because he wanted more food.

"Martin, please don't shout. You're upsetting the baby."

"I'm not shouting." I took a deep breath and forced myself to calm down. "I'm simply pointing out that what Morwenna did was more than just share idle gossip. I'm lucky that my patient isn't contacting a solicitor, which would be well within his rights, by the way."

Louisa frowned and then scooped out another few bites of James Henry's lunch and let him take it off the spoon. "It's that serious?"

"Of course it's that serious," I said, anger coming through as I tried to make Louisa understand. "People often tell me things that they don't share with anyone else, things I need to know in order to diagnose and treat them. They trust me not to reveal those confidences. And there are laws protecting patient privacy, very serious laws, I might add."

"I understand that, Martin."

"Then you must also understand that I can't have a receptionist compromising confidentiality and violating those laws."

"She made a mistake. We all make mistakes."

"Yes, and some mistakes are worse than others."

"Still, she's young and it's the first time she—"

"It's not the first time. That woman," I shouted, "Is incapable. Of keeping her mouth. Shut."

As I'd reflected on the situation after the confrontation with Ethan Brown, I'd realized that Morwenna's proclivity for sharing secrets had started months ago when she'd told PC Penhale about the scratches on the arms of that crazy cat woman. Her explanation to me about littering had seemed farfetched at the time; only later had I pieced together what she'd done. And she'd talked openly in the waiting room about Mrs. Richards' need for sedatives and Mr. Elderson's incontinence. I agreed with Louisa that Morwenna had her strengths. Nonetheless, she couldn't seem to respect and keep confidential the private concerns of my patients. And that was something I couldn't tolerate in a receptionist.

"I still feel badly for her," Louisa added. "Out of a job and all that."

Oh, for God's sake. "She's out of a job because _she_ compromised patient confidentiality!

How many times did I have to explain this to her? And why was she blaming me instead of Morwenna or even the idiot Dr. Dibbs, who'd driven away Pauline, whom I was beginning to realize had been more competent than I'd given her credit for.

"I know, Martin, but you still could have—"

"Could have what?" I was openly shouting now and didn't even care. "Could have kept her in her job until she'd managed to share every private detail about every one of my patients with every citizen in this bloody village?"

Louisa's mouth curved into a pout. "That's not what I said."

Now James was crying and Louisa jostled him in her arms, trying to calm him.

"You're angry with me because I dismissed her."

"No, I was simply wondering if you might have tried something less . . . well, you know, less drastic." Louisa was now trying to shush the baby and argue with me at the same time.

"Louisa, when you were the head teacher, I didn't tell you how to run your school and I don't need you telling me how to run my surgery."

"I'm not!"

"That's exactly what you're doing. And for some reason you don't seem to appreciate the importance of maintaining patient confidentiality at all costs."

I continued to shout, James continued to wail, and Louisa seemed unable to deal with either.

"Martin, you're being unfair," she said.

"No, I'm being responsible to my patients, whom you obviously consider less important than Morwenna's self esteem."

And without waiting for Louisa's reply, I turned on my heel and marched back into the surgery, suddenly preferring the chaos of my waiting room to the turmoil of my living room.


	11. Chapter 11

It took only one afternoon without Morwenna to remind me that it was impossible to run a surgery – or at least my surgery – without a receptionist.

I had to find, fetch and file all of my patient notes. The surgery phone went unanswered unless I happened to be between patients. Patients in the waiting room argued over who was "next." Consultant notes and results of scans piled up in the fax machine. Patients with "emergencies" that may or may not have been urgent simply showed up with a demand to be seen immediately. And every patient wanted to know what had happened to Morwenna. As Aunt Joan had once described the situation after I'd temporarily sent Pauline away, it was bedlam.

As a result, it took nearly two hours after surgery should have ended to clear out the last of my patients, return phone messages, and finish up patient notes. Between the lunchtime row with Louisa and the chaotic afternoon in the surgery, I was in a foul mood. The last thing I wanted was to go another round with Louisa. We'd made our differences clear and nothing either of us said was likely to change our respective positions.

This was one of those times when I fervently wished for a larger cottage. One of the side effects of Ethan Brown's illness was that it had stalled our search for a new home. Ours was perfectly fine when Louisa and I were speaking civilly to each other and the baby was well behaved. When either of us needed distance, the cottage seemed small and confining, and there was nowhere to go to be alone other than the outdoors. And, given today's blustery weather, that wasn't an option for me.

I walked toward the living room, determined to avoid confrontation, which meant conversation, at any costs.

Louisa and James Henry were sitting on the sofa, Louisa reading to the baby from a book that apparently made sounds if one pushed on the right spots.

"The cow is in the field," she read. "Press the bell to hear the cow moo." She covered James's finger with her own and helped him press the book to obtain the desired sound. Our son seemed to find it fascinating as he giggled loudly in response.

"In the field next to the cow is the sheep," Louisa said, and was shortly thereafter was rewarded with a loud "baa." She glanced up as I crossed the threshold, probably trying to assess whether I was still angry with her.

"Louisa," I said formally.

"Martin, how did it go this afternoon?"

"How do you think it went?" I asked rhetorically. "And I'm sure you're going to tell me that too was all my fault."

"You obviously did what you thought was right."

"And yet you still think I was wrong."

"As you made clear, my opinions on the subject don't count, so let's not argue again."

"Right."

She held James out to me. "Maybe you could finish reading his story so I can get dinner ready."

I wanted to take out the day's frustrations on someone or something. But, when I looked down at James Henry, smiling at the sight of me, it was hard to stay angry. Louisa had found my weak spot and, as I took James from her, the look she gave me said she knew it.

I stared with dismay at the plastic book with its simplistic sentences and stupid sounds. "Isn't there a more . . . educational book than this?"

"Children at his age love sounds," she called over her shoulder. "He especially likes the pig and the rooster."

"Oh God," I mumbled as James settled contentedly in my lap. I took a deep breath. "Next to the field is the barn and in the barn is the pig," I read, wondering how this drivel could be remotely beneficial to a baby's educational development. I dutifully helped James press on the pig's tail, producing a loud "oink." James squealed with pleasure and, feeling like an idiot, I pressed the stupid tail a second time.

We were only halfway through the moronic book and I vowed to skip a few of the pages. At his age, James wouldn't notice. After we'd covered the rooster, chicken, owl and dog, I put the book aside, surprised that I actually had calmed down quite a bit. "Has he had his supper?"

"I fed him about an hour ago. Maybe you could put him down while I finish making dinner?"

"Right." If nothing else, being in separate rooms would keep up from arguing for at least a few minutes. I carried James Henry upstairs for his evening ritual and, a short time later, returned to the kitchen with our son securely asleep in his cot. I found Louisa at the stove stirring the rice.

"Any trouble getting him to go to sleep?" she asked, turning her attention to the steamed broccoli.

"No, he seemed almost eager to go to bed."

"Probably all the fresh air from our stroll."

"Probably," I agreed. While we were talking about nothing of any importance, at least we weren't having a row.

"So Martin, now that Morwenna's gone, what are you going to do for a receptionist?"

Her tone was more inquisitive than accusatory and I was pleased that Louisa finally seemed to have accepted my actions, even if she didn't fully agree with them. And it was a fair question. This afternoon had convinced me that I needed a new receptionist immediately, someone to at least answer the phone and book consultations.

I poured mineral water to drink with our dinner. "I suppose I'll have to advertise for the position."

"I could help out in the meantime."

Louisa's first stint as my receptionist had been a challenge, and it probably wouldn't bode well for our marriage to repeat that experiment. "I'm not sure that's such a good idea," I said with some hesitation. "Uh, James Henry keeps you very busy."

To my relief, Louisa smiled at me. "I know _exactly_ what you mean, Martin, and I'm not suggesting it as a permanent solution."

I put on an apron and retrieved the broccoli from the steamer, reflecting on what I would do come tomorrow morning. Until I could interview and hire someone, I might have to rely on Louisa.

"You know," Louisa said, her voice becoming a bit more animated. "I know someone who might work, at least for a short time."

"Right," I replied warily. Just once I'd like to choose my receptionist through a proper process of resumes and interviews instead of their simply showing up in my surgery and assuming the job.

"Mrs. Potter," Louisa said with confidence.

"Who?"

"Mrs. Potter. She was the librarian until she retired about a year ago. When I ran into her in the market the other day, she was saying how she was looking for something to do. Wanted to know if she could help out at school or whatever. I'm sure she'd make a fine receptionist – until you find someone permanent, of course."

I had to admit that it wasn't the worst idea I'd heard all week. If the woman could run a library, surely she could handle making appointments and filing patient notes.

"And," Louisa continued as she pulled the roasted chicken from the oven, "she's certainly not one to gossip. I've known the woman for years and she can keep her mouth shut."

"Alright. Have her stop by the surgery first thing tomorrow morning. But—" I held up a hand. "I can't guarantee I'll hire her at all, let alone on more than a temporary basis."

"I'll tell her. But I do think you'll like her."

At this point, I would settle for someone who was competent at her job and respected patient confidentiality. Anything else would be an unexpected bonus.

As Louisa and I sat down to eat, I realized that we'd actually managed to work through our disagreement. It hadn't been pretty. It hadn't been easy. But, it was progress.


	12. Chapter 12

Saturday morning was a time for us to do errands in the village as a family. I enjoyed getting out in the fresh air with my wife and son. What wasn't so pleasant was dealing with the parade of villagers who'd invariably try to lure me into a quick consultation rather than making an appointment in the surgery

Knowing we had limited time before James Henry would want to eat, need to be changed, or simply become fussy at being restrained in his carrier, we split up. Louisa and the baby went into the grocery shop while I made my way to the dry cleaners with a week's worth of clothing.

Louisa had taken and picked up the cleaning the last few times, so it had been several weeks since I'd visited this shop. When I pushed open the door, I was startled to find Morwenna standing behind the counter, the first time I'd seen her since I'd dismissed her. While I realized that I'd eventually run into her somewhere in the village, I hadn't expected it to be today or here.

"Doctor Ellingham," she greeted me in a formal but frosty tone.

"Morwenna. I didn't know you were working here."

"Well, I gotta work somewhere now don't I?"

The dark look Morwenna gave me made clear she was still upset about her dismissal and still blamed me. There was no way I was going to resolve the situation this morning – or probably ever for that matter, so best to get on with my business. I pulled the dirty clothing from the bag and placed it on the counter. "Six shirts, heavy starch for laundry."

"Uh-huh." She sounded bored as filled out the slip and then dumped the items into a laundry bag behind the counter.

"And two suits for dry cleaning."

"Got it. Even I can handle that, Doctor," she said in a formal and frosty tone even as she chewed lazily on a piece of gum. "That all?"

"Yes." Now that Louisa wasn't teaching, she mostly wore casual trousers and tops that could be run through the washing machine and didn't require dry cleaning. "I do have several items to pick up," I added, handing her the receipts.

When she took them from me, I couldn't help but notice that she looked a little peaked. As I scrutinized her more carefully, her skin tone was unnaturally pale and her movement away from the counter seemed a tad slow and deliberate, especially for someone I knew to have a nearly boundless level of energy.

Of course, it might be nothing at all. Maybe she was simply depressed or bored with her new job. I continued to observe her as she climbed on a ladder to retrieve my items from the upper rotating rack of clothes. At the top, she staggered a bit, grabbing onto the top of the ladder to steady herself.

"Morwenna!" I called out. "Are you alright?"

She ignored me, retrieved my suits without incident, climbed back down the ladder and brought my clean clothing to the counter. "That'll be eighteen pounds, seventy."

I pulled out my wallet and removed a twenty-pound note. "You're pale and lethargic. It could be anemia. You should come to the surgery for a blood test."

"In case you hadn't noticed, I don't work for you any more, Doctor Ellingham. And

I'm changing my surgery. I'm going to Truro now."

I wasn't entirely surprised. Given the circumstances of her dismissal, it probably would have been a bit awkward for her to continue to see me as a patient.

"See your GP in Truro then. Right away. Ask him to check your hemoglobin level."

"And if I don't, I'm being stupid, is that it?"

"Electing not to seek medical attention for a potentially serious condition is not exactly a wise decision, now is it?"

"Well, I guess that's par for the course for me, isn't it, being stupid an all?"

"Morwenna, don't let the fact that you're angry with me affect your health."

"I'm not angry with you; I simply don't care what you think." She grabbed the money out of my hand and dropped the change on the counter the, without another word, turned away and headed for the back room.

I stared at her for a long minute, trying to decide whether to say more. In the end, I said nothing. Morwenna was correct. She no longer worked for me; she was no longer even a patient. If she wanted to do something stupid, even regarding her own health, there wasn't a thing I could do about it. Bloody hell.

As I stepped out of the shop, I nearly ran into Judith Brown, who appeared to be on her way inside with her own bag of cleaning. We both stumbled, and I nearly dropped my clean suits onto the pavement.

"Oh, Doctor Ellingham," she said. "I'm so sorry. I've been in such a hurry; I wasn't looking where I was going."

I almost didn't recognize the haggard, flustered person in front of me as the same poised and determined woman who'd visited my surgery only a month ago.

"Mrs. Brown," I said.

She stared down at her bag of laundry. "Ethan wanted these suits cleaned. I'm not sure why he bothers since they really don't fit and he doesn't have much use for them anyway of late—" She sniffed loudly. "I'm sorry. It's not your problem."

I glanced around to confirm we were alone. "How is your husband?" I hadn't seen the estate agent for several weeks. The last time he'd been in my surgery he'd looked relatively healthy for someone in his condition and had been in good spirits. Based on his wife's comments today, I suspected events had taken a turn for the worse.

"He's having a tough time of it. You know we had plans to visit Italy?"

"He'd mentioned it." He'd wanted to take his wife to Venice, Florence and Rome.

She looked sad. "We had it all planned and then . . . Ethan just didn't have the energy to go. Doing even the simplest things takes so much out of him. Some days, it seems like all he can do is breathe. He's lost weight of course. And he's in a fair amount of pain."

"Hasn't he been prescribed painkillers?" I knew Brown had been referred to hospice and they typically ensured patients received adequate analgesia – usually morphine or hydrocodone. For terminal patients, there was no concern about addition.

"Yes, but side effects are brutal and he hates the way they make him feel."

"Would you like me to stop by? Perhaps there's something that can be done to make him more comfortable."

"Oh would you?" she asked, and for the first time since I'd run into her, I saw a tiny glimmer of hope in her eyes.

"Yes. In the meantime, I'll check with hospice to understand how they're managing his case."

"The visiting nurse is Mary Ellen Jamison. She's very nice, very helpful. It's just that sometimes Ethan resists what she suggests. He still thinks . . ." Tears formed at the edge of her eyes. "He still thinks that he . . . that we . . . that there's time for us to . . . well, you know, do things. That what he's feeling now is only a setback."

"And you understand—"

"That he's dying?" She took a deep breath and stood upright. "Yes, Doctor, I understand. I understand we have less time than either of us expected and I understand that he'll . . ." She sniffed again. "That he . . . that he won't be with me much longer."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"You know, I believe you. And I appreciate it. And I know that Ethan and I would both appreciate if you stopped by, if only to visit."

"Of course. How is tomorrow, early afternoon?"

"Any time is fine." She forced a tight smile. "We don't have much of a pressing schedule these days, you know."

"Right."

She blew out a long breath and squared her shoulders. "Well, I'd better get these errands finished and get back to Ethan. Thank you again, Doctor and I'll look forward to seeing you tomorrow afternoon." With a curt nod, she pushed past me into the shop.

I watched her go, reflecting once again on what a strong woman she was and how lucky Ethan was to have her support. And, I couldn't help but think, as wrong as Morwenna talking to Judith Brown had been, somehow the final outcome had been right.


	13. Chapter 13

With my dry cleaning in hand, I caught up with Louisa outside the grocer's. A handful of shopping bags now hung from the pushchair and, inside, James Henry was awake and smiling contentedly.

As we rounded the corner, in the distance I saw a woman perched on the low stone ledge of the garden in center of the square. She was hunched over, seemingly picking at her fingers. A grocery bag lay on the ground next to her, half of its contents spilled onto the pavement.

"Isn't that Mrs. Richards?" Louisa asked before I'd even said a word. "I wonder what she's doing there."

"Yes, it looks to be." I had to agree that the situation did seem a bit odd.

Louisa pushed the pram forward until she was nearly on top of the woman. "Good morning," Louisa said cheerfully.

Mrs. Richards slowly raised her head. "Louisa?" Her eyes roamed wildly, seemingly having trouble focusing.

"Yes, it's Louisa. And Martin and James Henry," Louisa added. "We're out for a morning stroll." She looked down at the half-empty bag. "Can we help you with something? Your groceries, maybe?"

"My what?"

"Your groceries," I answered for Louisa, taking a step closer and pointing to the open bag. "They've spilled."

Mrs. Richards glanced down then back up at us and seemed to shrug. "Yes, I suppose they have, haven't they?"

I scrutinized her face carefully. Her eyes were unfocused, her color was poor and her skin was tight and dry across her face. "Mrs. Richards, are you alright?"

When she didn't answer, I reached down and picked up her hand, noting that she offered no resistance. A check of her pulse at the wrist found it slow and weak.

"Martin?" Louisa asked, concern evident on her features.

I looked around the square. Mrs. Richards lived some distance away from the village, and it was hard to believe that, in her current condition, she'd managed to come all this way on her own.

Suddenly, the door to the fruit and vegetable shop flew open and a young woman started running towards us. "Mum!" she called. As she approached, I recognized Mrs. Richards' eldest daughter Amy who, during my early years in Portwenn, had been part of the cluster of girls who regularly giggled outside my surgery and called me "tosser" at every opportunity.

Amy stopped short in front of us. "Doctor, Louisa, is mum okay?" She knelt down next to her mother and gently brushed the hair from the older woman's face. "She didn't want to go into the shop and I needed to pick up a few things for supper. I thought she'd been fine out here on her own for a few minutes." She gazed up at me. "Is something wrong?"

"Your mother's pulse is a bit weak and she seems . . . somewhat unfocused."

She sighed heavily. "It's probably those drugs. They make her a bit weird."

My eyes narrowed. "What drugs?" In the days immediately after Bobby's death, I'd had to administer sedatives in order for the woman to function. However, she'd coped surprisingly well at the funeral and, in the days following, had assured me she was doing much better. I hadn't seen her for nearly a month and certainly hadn't prescribed any medications that could have caused these symptoms.

"Something to help her sleep," the daughter replied. "Valium, I think it is."

The generic name was diazepam, a commonly prescribed anti-anxiety drug. "Where did she get that?"

"A week or so after you last saw her, she started having trouble sleeping again. She was having dreams about . . . about Bobby and kept blaming herself. Felt the whole village thought him drowning was her fault. She even talked about, well, about offing herself. So we went to the vicar."

I couldn't believe what I'd just heard. "Your mother was having suicidal thoughts and you decided to take her to the vicar?"

"Martin!" Louisa hissed beside me and jabbed me in the ribs.

"My mum was afraid to see you. Thought you'd tell her she was stupid or something."

"Why would she think that?" I realized we were having a conversation about Mrs. Richards as if she weren't here when in fact she was seated right in front of us.

"You know, you'd tell her she was crazy for being so upset. Or whatever. I don't know."

"I at least would have treated her properly," I replied somewhat indignantly. "So if you went to the vicar, how did your mother end up being prescribed Valium?"

"When mum said she wouldn't see you, the vicar sent us to a doc in Truro. He's the one gave them her the medicine – said it would help when she got to feeling all nervous like."

Good God. "How many?" I asked.

"How many what?"

"How many pills did he prescribe? How many refills?"

The daughter's expression was blank. "I don't know."

"Is she having the prescription filled here, at the chemist's?"

"Yeah, I think so."

Well, he should be able to help me sort things out. "Alright. I need you to bring your mother to see me in the surgery first thing Monday morning."

"I'm not sure she'll want to come—"

"Make her come."

"Should she stop taking the pills?"

"No." The last thing Mrs. Richards needed was to go into benzodiazepine withdrawal without proper medical supervision. "She can continue to take them but make sure she takes no more than the amount prescribed. It will be on the bottle," I added. "And bring the bottle with you when you come Monday." That way I could figure out how much medication was left.

"Okay, Doc."

Louisa said her goodbyes and we started to make our way to the pharmacy.

"Is she going to be okay?" Louisa asked me.

"Yes. I'll get it sorted Monday. Although I have no earthly idea why anyone would prescribe benzodiazepines for a patient with suicidal ideation."

Behind us, I could hear Mrs. Richards' daughter speaking with a slow and gentle voice. "Come on, Mum, let's get you home."

"I don't want to go home. It's so empty without Bobby."

"I'm there, Mum. And Kelly and little Joe," the daughter replied in a tone that made clear she'd had this same conversation many times over the past month. "Come on, come with me. It'll be okay. I'll help you."

As I listened, I realized how quickly the young giggling girl had been forced to grow up and, in some ways, to be a mother to her own mother.

Inside the pharmacy, Pruitt was standing behind the counter. "Dr. Ellingham, Louisa." He greeted us with a broad smile that I didn't return.

"Hello, Nate," Louisa said from beside me. "How are you settling in?"

"It's coming along."

"I like what you've done with the shop."

"Thanks," he replied. "Happy to hear someone approves. Most of the folks around here don't seem to like change, even if it's for the better."

Glancing about, I noticed that in the short time since he'd taken over from Mrs. Tishell, Pruitt had reorganized the pharmacy. There was fresh paint on the walls and new holders for merchandise, which had been moved from their prior locations. Signs touted new items as well as seasonal specials. The place definitely had a sleeker and more modern approach.

To me, however, the most important purpose of the chemist was to dispense prescription medicines, and it was this subject that was the purpose of my visit.

"Mr. Pruitt," I said, raising myself to my full height, "Why didn't you tell me that you'd filled a prescription for diazepam for Mrs. Richards?"

He shrugged innocently. "Who's Mrs. Richards?"

"Her son Bobby broke his neck in the pool," Louisa reminded him.

"Oh, right," Pruitt said. "Shame about that. As for the prescription, I honestly didn't think much about it."

"You didn't think," I continued, "that when a woman who is clinically depressed is prescribed benzodiazepines that it might be wise to inform her GP."

"You're her GP. I thought you knew."

"Was my signature on the prescription?"

He had the sense to look a bit sheepish. "Uh, no. Didn't recognize the name of the doctor, but then again I'm new around here." He gave me another insipid grin.

"My point exactly. What do you know about Mrs. Richards? Did you review other medications she was prescribed in order to preclude a dangerous interaction?"

Without waiting for his reply, I continued. "Did you know that she has been clinically depressed since the death of her son, that she is often at home alone, and in situations such as that, diazepam overdose is a distinct possibility?"

"I didn't think—"

"That's right, you didn't think. Mr. Pruitt, your job as the chemist in this village is not merely to put up attractive displays and offer two-for-one specials on hard-to-sell merchandise. You play an important role in the health of this community. In that regard, one of your responsibilities is to keep the GP informed when his patients obtain medications from other physicians."

"I didn't realize—"

"This isn't pharmacy school, Mr. Pruitt. There are real lives at stake here. If you can't be more vigilant, you should consider working in a pastry shop."

With that, I turned on my heel and walked out of the shop, leaving Louisa to trail behind me.

As I stepped into the street, I couldn't help but remember Mrs. Tishell. Neither Louisa nor I could ever forgive her for what she'd done to James Henry and the terror she'd instilled in us on that miserable day. But, she was a competent chemist who actually helped me do my job. She refused to refill prescriptions without my permission. She informed me when patients didn't pick up their medications. In short, she knew how to be a small-town chemist, which at this point was something her successor had yet to demonstrate.

"Was that really necessary?" Louisa asked as she caught up with me a few steps outside.

"You saw Mrs. Richards. She's not well and having her taking medications without my knowledge only complicates the situation."

"He's new, Martin. He needs to learn."

I shook my head. "First Morwenna and now Pruitt. Why is it so hard for people in this village to do their jobs properly?"

"Everyone can't be you," Louisa said quietly.

"I'm not asking them to be. I simply expect them to be competent."

"Yes, Martin." I heard the resignation in her voice and sensed an impending row.

"Well, am I wrong?"

"No. It's just that . . . well, sometimes people around here think you expect perfection and that's hard. For anyone."

I handed Louisa the dry cleaning and took over pushing the pram. Rather than answer and start another row, I tried to consider objectively what Louisa had said. Was I asking people to be more than they were, or even could be? And was it wrong to demand the same excellence in others that I demanded of myself?

"People in this community look up to you, Martin," Louisa was now saying.

I very much doubted that.

"And when they think you're disappointed in them . . ." She looked down at James Henry in the pushchair. "I just don't want that to happen to him."

"You don't want us to demand he be excellent?"

"I just don't want us to be angry with him when he's not."


	14. Chapter 14

"I thought we might skip dinner," Louisa said. She'd just come down the stairs in her dressing gown, having put James Henry down for what we hoped would be the night. After a long Saturday morning of errands and full afternoon playing with the baby, I at least was ready for a quiet evening, starting with a light dinner.

"Louisa, skipping meals isn't wise. It's important for the body to maintain a consistent metabolism, and research has shown that people who skip meals are at greater risk for obesity, high cholesterol, hypertension—"

Speaking of high blood pressure, I couldn't restrain a gasp as Louisa suddenly opened the front of her cream-colored dressing gown. Underneath, she was clad in nothing more than a very skimpy crimson brassiere and even skimpier crimson knickers. The color of her lipstick, I noted, perfectly matched the red of her outfit. With her tousled hair tumbled loosely over her breasts, she created an incredibly seductive picture.

Before my mind could tell my lips to say a word, Louisa moved closer until she was standing above me, her legs pressing between my knees. I put aside the most recent edition of the _British Journal of General Practice_, unable to take my eyes off of her.

"I bought it when I was in Truro," she said. "Was waiting for the right time to wear it. Do you like it?"

"Uh." I cleared my throat in an effort to speak. "Yes." I swallowed hard as I reached out my hands and caressed her arms and hips and the parts of her small round bottom that weren't covered by the knickers. "Very much."

"Give me your jacket," she ordered and, without hesitation, I shrugged out of it and handed it to her. She immediately tossed it onto the floor. Before I could tell her that the jacket would become wrinkled and need to go to the dry cleaners, she seated herself on my knee and her hands started working on my tie, first loosening it, and then pulling it off with a flourish. I never thought the simple process of removing a cravat could be so erotic.

"Should we, uh, move upstairs?" I asked.

"I rather like it here." Nimble fingers started unbuttoning my shirt while an even more nimble mouth planted light kisses along my neck and freshly exposed chest. "Don't you?"

At this point, it was hard to think of anything other than what I could expect in the next few minutes. I pushed the dressing gown off Louisa's shoulders, admiring her beautiful body, her milky white skin—

A loud ringing sounded from the floor, inside my jacket. My mobile. I'd forgotten to shut it off.

I dropped my hands from their comfortable position on Louisa's breasts. "Oh, hell."

"Ignore it," Louisa encouraged. It was hard to resist her when she had her tongue in my ear and her hands in my hair and, for a brief second, before my professional instincts took over, I considered doing just that.

As the ringing continued, I grimaced in frustration. "I can't," I said with a sigh. "Sorry."

"Right." Louisa's disappointment was obvious. She scrambled for the phone and handed it to me, then pulled the dressing gown back over herself. Damn.

"Ellingham," I barked in my most unfriendly tone.

"Doc, it's Tom Goodman-Hill, from the Crab."

"Yes," I said, making no effort to disguise my annoyance.

"You need to get down here right away."

Good God. A Saturday night call from the pub almost certainly meant that someone had drunk too much alcohol and probably compounded that with something even more stupid, as people were wont to do when they were inebriated. "Is someone sick or injured?" I asked, emphasizing the words in a way that I hoped signaled that I wasn't prepared to give up my romantic night with Louisa for a simple case of intoxication.

There was a brief pause. "It's Morwenna. Morwenna Newcross."

I sighed. As if there was more than one Morwenna in Portwenn or that I wouldn't at least recognize _her_ name. "Is _she_ sick or injured?"

"I dunno, Doc. She's . . . acting weird."

I rolled my eyes, not that the bartender could see them. "She's at a pub on a Saturday night," I said, making clear the situation was obvious. "She's probably intoxicated."

"Look Doc, she's had a couple brews, that's for sure. But I've seen my share of drunks and it's more than that. She's acting strange, like nothing I've seen before. Keeps saying your name too."

"_My_ name?"

"Yeah. I'm having trouble making sense of it but she's definitely talking about 'the Doc'."

Pieced together with her odd behavior at the dry cleaners, Morwenna could be suffering from any number of serious afflictions, or simple inebriation. There was no way I could make a proper diagnosis without seeing her for myself. I looked longingly at the Louisa, already regretting what I'd miss if I went out on a call.

"Alright. I'll come down. Give me a few minutes."

I briefly explained the situation to Louisa, promising to do my best to return home while there was still time to salvage some of our evening, even though I knew the chances of that were slim. The disappointment of another night spent alone was evident in her eyes as she was quickly learning the downside to being the wife of Portwenn's sole GP.

Less than ten minutes later, fire in my eyes and medical bag in hand, I pushed my way through the door of the Crab. It was in its usual rowdy state for a Saturday night during the height of the fishing season. A couple of tables were crowded with fishermen, and their loud voices and boisterous behavior told me they'd already put back a few pints.

"Doc!" one of the men called out upon seeing me. "Let me buy ya a pint!"

"Or two!" someone else shouted. "Loosen you up a bit, it will."

I ignored them, keeping my eyes peeled for the proprietor. A short distance away, a group of young ladies had cornered their own table and, from their demeanor, I gathered they too had imbibed their share of alcohol. I was beginning to suspect that, like the rest of them, Morwenna had drunk too much and that my trip here was nothing more than a colossal waste of time.

"Doc Martin!" It was Mr. Hill, the bartender. "Over here."

Scowling at his use of the abhorrent moniker, I followed his voice past the bar, populated by yet another loud group of locals, and toward the back of the room.

There, pacing back and forth was Morwenna, surrounded by a small group of other young people. At first glance, she looked even worse than she had this morning. Her hair was uncombed and her mascara had smeared around both eyes, running down her left cheek. When she looked up, I saw that one of her dangling earrings was missing. There was restlessness in her demeanor, almost as if she wanted to burst out of her skin. But it was her eyes that I most noticed. They were bright and wild.

"Hey, it's the Doc!" Morwenna exclaimed loudly upon seeing me. "Wassup, Doc. How's it going? Sack anyone today, didja?"

For the moment I said nothing and used the opportunity to observe her more closely.

"Come on, Doc. Lighten up. Have a drink." She lifted her own pint of ale and took a long swig. "Or two. Two's better than one, I say," she added. "And three's better than two."

She downed another swallow then jumped onto a chair and then onto the table, trying to gain her balance. "Or maybe three's a crowd. Whaddaya think?"

"What are you doing up there?" I asked. Morwenna had been unsteady on her feet this morning. Now, with an unknown amount of alcohol in her system, she was walking in heels atop a table slick with beer.

By now, some of her friends were encouraging her to climb back down, and I moved closer so I might catch her if she fell.

"I'm taller than you now, Doc," she said, swinging her drink back and forth, sloshing some of it onto the floor and onto the shoulders and heads of other pub patrons. "My turn to look down my nose at you." As she spoke, she tipped on her heels, nearly falling off the table.

"Morwenna, get down from there!" I said sternly.

"Let her be, Doc," one of her friends called out and I did my best to silence her with a pointed glare.

"Don't be sucha tosser, Doc," Morwenna said loudly, her words slurred. "I'm just having a good time. Everyone's having a good time, right?" Her friends laughed nervously as she took another long drink, nearly emptying her mug. "Or are you gonna tell me how stupid I am? That I'm not as smart as the great Doctor Ellingham."

I tried a different approach. "Why don't you step down from there and we'll talk about it?"

"Talk, Doc? Hey, that rhymes. What's there to talk about? You think I'm stupid. Made that perfectly clear. And we can't have a stupid cow like me working in your surgery, can we?"

I exchanged glances with Mr. Hill, who gave me a look as if to say that it wasn't his fault that Morwenna was in her current state.

"We need to get her down from there," I said softly. "Before she hurts herself."

He nodded. "Okay, Doc. I'll try." Hill approached the table where Morwenna was now swaying dangerously.

"I want to sing!" she called out. "Who wants to sing with me?" She started humming some off-key tune.

"Hey, Morwenna," Hill called out. "You're looking a pint low. How about a refill?"

I pulled on his arm. "That's not what she needs!"

He shrugged off my touch. "Do you want me to get her down or not?" he asked me then, in a louder voice, spoke to Morwenna. "Morwenna, you're running on empty. Get down here and fill her up. Drinks on the house," he added. "For everyone."

"Hey, d'ya hear that?" one of her friends said. "Free ale. Let's go." The group stood up from their chairs and headed over to the bar, leaving Morwenna suddenly without an audience.

"Hey, where's everybody going?" Morwenna asked, walking toward the edge of the table and starting to step off. Hill and I saw what was happening, and at the same moment, both of us jumped forward and somehow managed to catch her before she fell.

"Let's get her into a chair," I said, grunting with effort, and the two of us half-carried and half-dragged her to a nearby chair. Once she was seated, I pulled out my pocket torch and shined it into her right eye.

She pushed away my hand. "Whatcha doing? Get that away from me."

I grabbed her chin with my free hand. "Morwenna, hold still. I need to check your pupils."

She tried to shake free. "Leave me alone."

By keeping a firm grip on her head, I was able to examine both eyes. Her pupils were dilated, and when my fingers pressed against her neck, I found her carotid pulse bounding.

"Morwenna, are you taking any drugs?"

"Don't work for you any more, Doc." She again tried to move away. "Now, let me go so I can get some of that free ale."

Her current symptoms – euphoria, dilated pupils and racing pulse – suggested she was high on amphetamines, whereas her symptoms this morning were indicative of anemia, a condition which would only heighten the effect of alcohol and drugs on her system.

"How many drinks has she had?" I asked the bartender.

"Dunno exactly. Two, maybe three."

It was hard to say whether that amount of alcohol accounted for her behavior; it would depend in part on her tolerance and I had no idea whether she routinely drank alcohol, let alone how much. I gripped her shoulders and tried to get her eyes to focus on me. "Morwenna, have you been taking your grandfather's pills again?"

"No. Now leave me alone!" She tried to stand up from the chair.

I pushed her back into it and stared into her eyes. "Have you been taking any drugs? Any at all? It's very important you tell me."

There were numerous sources of drugs available to her. Although I'd inventoried the medicines in my surgery only a few days ago and so was certain she hadn't helped herself to any of my supply, she might have nabbed a few from Pruitt. Or received a prescription from another doctor, as Mrs. Richards had done. Or obtained them illegally which I knew was easy enough to do, even in Portwenn.

Morwenna shook her head – whether she did so to answer the question in the negative or simply in defiance, it was hard to tell.

"What are we going to do with her?" the bartender asked, clearly anxious to get this woman out of his pub and get back to his customers.

"She needs to go to hospital," I replied, turning my back on Morwenna as I answered him. Without her cooperation, I couldn't determine what drugs she might have taken or how many or even adequately assess her current condition. At least the hospital could run a tox screen, which would give us some answers.

"Should I call for an ambulance?" he asked.

"Not yet. Let's see if we can't get her to the hospital—"

"I'm not going to hospital!" Morwenna shouted from behind me and bolted out of her seat. By the time I could react, she was running toward the front door of the pub, weaving and stumbling along the way.

"Morwenna!" I followed her, struggling to work my way through the throng that crowded around the bar to avail themselves of the free ale. "Morwenna! Come back here!" Despite my considerable height, I couldn't see her among the patrons that now filled the pub.

By the time I reached the entrance, I still hadn't located Morwenna and didn't know whether she remained in the pub or had already fled. The other patrons would be of no help – they were much more interested in drinking free beer and telling tales of big fish than in trying to help the GP locate someone who obviously didn't want his assistance.

I stood there, trying to decide what to do next – continue my search for Morwenna or leave her to her own devices and return home to Louisa and James Henry –when I heard the frantic screech and squeal of car tires that had been asked to stop too quickly in too short a distance.

A second later there was a dull thud that I recognized as the sound of a car hitting either a person or large animal.

As I stepped out of the pub into the darkness to see what had happened, the night was filled with the sound of a woman screaming.


	15. Chapter 15

On the road about fifty feet from the pub, a car was stopped, engine still running.

"Oh, God! Oh my God. Help! Help us!" A woman was standing next to the passenger door half-shouting and half-moaning. "We didn't see anything!" A quick glance told me the person screaming was Mrs. Oakwood, the badger woman who lived next door to Louisa's old cottage. "Help!"

I ignored her and jogged forward. Illuminated in the beams of the car's headlamps was a body, lying prostrate on the ground.

Morwenna. The realization that she was the victim filled me with a surprising level of despair.

"Go get help!" I ordered Mrs. Oakwood as I slid to my knees beside Morwenna and carefully rolled her onto her back, keeping her body as straight as possible even as my hands and eyes automatically assessed the damage. My initial impression was that her lower right leg had borne the brunt of the impact; she'd suffered blunt force trauma resulting in a comminuted fracture with significant hemorrhage. In layman's terms, it was a bloody mess. Nonetheless, the leg would have to wait as there could be more life-threatening injuries, which I could only evaluate using the tried and true ABCs of trauma management – airway, breathing and circulation.

I tilted Morwenna's head to open her airway, being careful to keep her spine in alignment until a spinal injury could be ruled out. Leaning in close, I felt and heard the movement of air and noted that her chest was rising and falling. The fact that she was breathing on her own through a clear airway was a good sign. I pressed my fingers against her carotid and found her pulse rapid and weak – much different than in the pub only minutes ago and indicative of shock and blood loss.

"Morwenna!" I shouted, trying to gauge her level of consciousness. "Can you hear me?" As I spoke, I quickly ran my fingers over her skull, checking for head trauma and then checked her pupils with my pocket torch. Other than a few scrapes on her scalp, everything seemed normal and, in this respect at least, it appeared she'd been lucky. Even so, the condition of her leg warranted emergency evacuation.

I pulled out my mobile and called 999. "This is Doctor Ellingham, Portwenn surgery," I said to the operator who answered. "I'm at the scene of an auto versus pedestrian accident. Patient is a twenty-two-year-old female with crush injury to the lower leg. Comminuted tib-fib fracture with significant hemorrhage and possible internal injuries. I need immediate air transport."

"Understood, Doctor. Stand by."

"I didn't see her." A man standing above me was speaking in a nervous, frightened tone. "One minute the road was empty and then suddenly she was there. "I swear I didn't see her."

I glanced up to find the ever-annoying Mr. Oakwood, wringing his hands and clearly trying to avoid staring at the gruesome injury. At the same moment, his wife returned to the scene, trailing a young man I recognized as Ross, head of the lifeboat crew.

He knelt down across from me. "Whoa! That looks nasty," he said as he got his first glimpse at the extent of Morwenna's injuries. "Anything I can do to help?"

I could only hope that he wasn't among the inebriated pub patrons. At least there was no smell of alcohol on his body or breath.

"Yeah. Get my bag – it's inside the pub at the back – and call P.C. Penhale. Then come back here and give me a hand."

"I'm on it," he said, rising to his feet and pulling out his own mobile as he ran.

I needed some sort of material to press against the wound. "Mrs. Oakwood, give me your jacket!"

"Huh?"

"Your jacket. I need it now!"

She shrugged out of the light cotton covering and wordlessly handed it to me. I immediately pressed it against the wound, tying the sleeves together around the leg to maintain pressure.

"Doctor? Doctor?" It was the operator's voice came from my mobile. "Helicopter's on its way," the dispatch operator reported when I responded. "Will it be landing at the harbor?"

"Yes."

"ETA is less than fifteen minutes."

"Good. I need you to contact the on-call orthopedic consultant."

"It's a Saturday night and you know there's a surgical registrar on duty—"

"I bloody well know that," I replied. "This case will require the expertise of a consultant. Call him now and have him come in! Preferably Mr. White, if he's available. I'll take the responsibility."

"Very well, Doctor _Ellingham_," the operator said, emphasizing my name as if to remind me that I would bear the brunt of the consultant's displeasure at being called in on a weekend.

I pocketed my mobile and turned back to Morwenna, again calling her name. This time I was rewarded with a vague moan and her eyes blinked several times as they tried to focus.

"Doc?"

I sighed with relief. For the moment at least she was conscious and oriented. "Yes, it's Doctor Ellingham. You've been in an accident." I rechecked her pupils; they remained slightly dilated but were equal and reactive.

"Morwenna!" I said when I'd finished. "Are you in pain anywhere?" When she didn't respond, I tried again. "Morwenna!"

Her eyes had closed and she appeared again to have lost consciousness. As I awaited my medical bag, I took a closer look at her leg. Months ago, I would have vomited over and over at the sight of the bloody wound. Tonight, I was able to keep my focus and my stomach intact.

The tibia and fibula were both severely damaged, with pieces of both bones protruding through the skin. The severity of the injury made nerve damage a significant possibility. The leg was hemorrhaging, and the fact that blood was pulsing from the wound indicated vascular damage. It was as serious a lower limb injury as I'd seen even in my days as a London surgeon. Unfortunately, there wasn't much I could do for the leg here other than try to keep the bleeding under control.

"How is she?" Oakwood asked nervously, continuing to keep his eyes averted.

"Not good," I replied.

Ross sprinted up with my medical bag. "Here you go, Doc. P.C.'s on his way."

A crowd had started to form, and I felt them pressing forward. Hopefully, Penhale would soon arrive and sort them out.

Rifling through the compartments of my case, I tore open several packets of gauze and exchanged them for Mrs. Oakwood's jacket pressed against Morwenna's leg. "Can you hold this?" I asked Ross.

He nodded and, once I was satisfied that he was applying direct pressure correctly, I retrieved my stethoscope and listened carefully to Morwenna's chest. Her breathing was equal bilaterally and there were no signs of a collapsed lung or other chest trauma.

I took her blood pressure. At 90/58, it was low, likely the result of blood loss either from the leg injury, internal injury, or both. It was important to stop the hemorrhaging and to replenish Morwenna's fluids to keep her from slipping into shock.

In the distance, I heard the peal of an approaching siren as I continued to check for additional injuries. Morwenna's abdomen was soft but my pressure elicited a few groans, so I couldn't rule out internal injury. Her hips were in alignment and there were no obvious signs of pelvic fracture. When I palpated her right arm, she moaned again but I didn't feel any obvious fracture.

"Move aside." It was the anxious voice of Joe Penhale. "Police business." He hurriedly pushed his way through the crowd. "Let me through. Move back."

I sensed the crowd retreating as I snatched the IV equipment from my bag.

"Doc," Penhale said, bending over me. "What have you got?"

"What does it look like?" I asked.

He glanced around as if actually seeing the scene for the first time. "It looks like an automobile versus pedestrian accident," he replied.

The man's talent for stating the obvious never ceased to amaze me. "I need your help."

Penhale pulled a notebook from his pocket. "Right. Accident protocol. Crowd control. Need to interview the driver and passengers. Do a field sobriety test—"

"No, you idiot. The helicopter will be landing at the harbor in a few minutes. I need you to bring the attendants here with a backboard and cervical collar. Speed is critical and I only want to move her once."

Penhale nodded and sped off. By the time the noise from the chopper blades cut through the night air, I'd managed to splint the leg and start an intravenous line of saline. Everything else would have to wait for the hospital.

The air ambulance attendants arrived shortly thereafter. As they began strapping Morwenna onto the backboard, she again regained consciousness.

"Doc!" Her eyes were filled with panic and she started to struggle. "Doc!" 

The ambulance personnel looked at me to help, and I quickly moved into her line of sight. "Stay still, Morwenna."

"I can't move. What's happening?"

"You were in an accident," I explained. "We're taking you to hospital. You can't move because we need to make sure you haven't injured your spine."

"Hospital?"

"Yes. We're taking you to hospital by helicopter."

"It's really bad then?"

"You have a leg injury," I said, deciding not to answer her question directly. "You need surgery, which is why we're taking you to hospital." I could only hope that, with repetition, my comments would eventually sink in.

"I'm scared."

Moments like these always left me feeling awkward. Providing comfort and compassion had never been my strong suit.

I cleared my throat. "Yes, well, there's no need to be frightened. You'll receive excellent care."

One of the helicopter attendants affixed the final strap and turned to me. "We're ready to go, Doctor."

I nodded and stood up from the stretcher as the attendants lifted it and began the slow walk down to the waiting chopper.

"Doc!" Morwenna cried. "Where are you?"

I jogged forward until I was walking along side her.

"I'm here, Morwenna."

"Are you coming with me?"

It took only an instant to make my decision. The girl was obviously frightened and, given what I knew was ahead of her, the sight of a familiar face, even mine, would probably provide some reassurance. More importantly, I wanted to make sure that, once she arrived at the hospital, everything was done properly.

"Yes, Morwenna, I am."

I motioned for Penhale to walk with me. "We need to get hold of her grandfather, let him know what happened."

He leaned in conspiratorially. "He's in Lakenheath. RAF reunion."

"Damn." It would be a long trip back to Truro and he was unlikely to get there before Morwenna was out of surgery.

"Don't worry, Doc. I'll take care of the notification."

"Good." Penhale might be incompetent at most elements of police work, but he did seem to have his wits about him when delivering bad news.

He'd started to move off when I called him back. "Can you take my medical bag back to the surgery and let Louisa know what happened – and that I'm flying with the helicopter? Tell her I'll call her as soon as I can."

He took the bag from me. "Will do."

A few minutes later, I climbed aboard the air ambulance. The flight to Truro would be quick and easy. What was in store for Morwenna once we arrived would be neither.


	16. Chapter 16

This time, no one tried to stop me as I jogged alongside Morwenna's stretcher down the white tiled hospital corridors and through the automatic opening double doors into the A&E area. Once there, I stood to the side as a cluster of nurses, technicians, and house officers went through their trauma routine. Within minutes, they'd replaced Morwenna's clothes with a hospital gown, drawn blood, inserted a catheter and second intravenous line, started her on plasma, repeated the head to toe examination for additional injuries, given pain medication, and taken portable x-rays.

She'd balked a bit at the sight of so many needles. I did my best to stand on the edge of the bed away from whoever was about to stick her and divert her attention with some medical question.

Overall, I found little to complain about in the activities of the hospital personnel and, several times during various procedures, I started to leave the curtained cubicle. Each time, Morwenna called me back. Occasionally, she'd ask about something the team was doing and I was at least able to provide the medical explanation.

"Be sure to run a tox screen," I said to the lab tech who was labeling the vials of blood. "I think she took amphetamines."

"Doc!" It was Morwenna and I walked over so that I was standing above her bed. "I'm not some speed freak."

I raised my eyebrows. "The symptoms you displayed at the pub are consistent with amphetamine use."

"Alright, alright. I took a couple of dexies."

"Morwenna, why?" I asked as my suspicions were confirmed.

She shrugged as much as the spinal precautions would allow. "I was feeling bad about . . . stuff. I wanted to feel good, happy, just for a little while."

I frowned with disapproval and opened my mouth to ask her where she'd obtained the drugs and to give a stern lecture about the abuse of amphetamines.

"I know you're sore at me Doc, but don't say it. Please."

Now probably _wasn't_ the best time even though the clarity with which she'd been speaking since we'd arrived at the hospital told me the effects of the amphetamines and alcohol were wearing off.

A few minutes later when they were ready to remove the spinal precautions, I seized the opportunity to get some air.

"Doc!" Morwenna called out as I reached the edge of the cubicle. "Don't go. Please don't leave me alone."

I turned back around. Her clinginess was making me increasingly uncomfortable, and I needed to get out of this cubicle, if only for a few minutes.

"Morwenna, I'm going down the corridor to check on the orthopedic consultant." And, truth be told, to use the lavatory and wash up. "I'll be back shortly."

"Promise?"

"Yes."

After learning from the nursing station that Mr. White was due any minute, I stopped to use the facilities and clean my shirt as best I could. Although it didn't look nearly as bad as the one I'd ruined with Peter's back-of-the-ambulance surgery, this one too would likely be a total loss.

I'd just come out of the lavatory when I heard the sound of a woman screaming coming from the A&E area. Within a few steps, I realized it was Morwenna, and rushed forward to see whatever was the matter. As I rounded the corner, I could make out her actual words.

"You're going to cut off my leg?" Morwenna cried out. "Just like that?"

The person at whom she was shouting was speaking softly so that I couldn't catch the reply. Within seconds, I pushed open the curtain to find Morwenna in a half-reclined position in the bed, staring at what was obviously one of the hospital registrars.

As I came into view, the eyes that turned to me were wide with fear and panic. "Doc!" Morwenna pointed at the registrar. "He said they're going to cut off my leg. That I'll need one of those plastic fake legs. Doc, you said I was going to be okay."

My gaze flicked between doctor and patient in confusion. I'd never met the registrar, a tall, broad shouldered man with curly blond hair that was worn longer than I would have permitted.

"What the hell is going on here?" I asked, only barely keeping my voice at a modulated level.

"And you are?" he asked.

"Dr. Ellingham. Her GP." That wasn't exactly true given that she'd re-registered in Truro. Not that it would make any difference to the registrar. "I brought her in," I added.

"Ah, of course. I'm Marc Sievers, orthopedic registrar. I was simply explaining to the patient that, in a situation where a comminuted fracture is coupled with loss of vascularization, the chances of amputation are significantly—"

"Amputation!" Morwenna was shrieking again. "No! Doc, don't let him! Don't let him cut off my leg!"

The registrar continued speaking directly to me. "The chances of amputation are significantly increased. You've seen the injury. I needn't tell you of all people—"

"Get out!"

Sievers shook his head at me in confusion. "What are you—"?

"Get out!" I pointed to the door. "Now!"

"You can't dismiss me. I work here—"

"Miss Newcross wants you out of this room—"

"Who's she?" Sievers asked.

This time I pointed at Morwenna. "_She_ is the patient. And _I_ want you out of here. Now."

Sievers snatched up the patient chart and, with a disgusted snort, stomped out of the cubicle, muttering what were no doubt curses directed at me under his breath as he exited.

"Doc, is what he said true? Am I going to lose my leg? I can't. You have to do something—"

"Shush."

"But they can't—" And she prattled on again.

"Morwenna," I said firmly, holding up a hand. "Morwenna!" I said, speaking slightly louder. When she finally paused – probably to take a breath – I jumped in. "If you want me to explain the situation to you, you'll have to be quiet long enough for me to do so."

She gave me an expectant look but this time kept her mouth shut.

"Right." I took a breath. "Now, a comminuted fracture means the bone has splintered in places. And loss of vascularization is a decrease in the flow of blood from the heart to other parts of the body - in this case, your lower leg. When both of those occur at the same time, as has happened with you, the injury is quite serious. However, I've seen much worse where a skillful consultant has been able to save the leg."

"But that man was the consultant and I figure he's skillful or you wouldn't have called him, and he said—"

"Stop!" I again raised my hand before she could continue. "That doctor is only a registrar – a surgeon in training," I explained. I declined to opine on the man's skill level. He might well be talented in theatre; his patient-interaction skills left much to be desired. "We need to wait until the consultant arrives, which should be soon."

"So he's going to save my leg."

I wouldn't replace false doom with false hope. "Mr. White is a very experienced orthopedic surgeon. He needs to examine you and then he'll give his opinion. In the meantime, until he gets here you should lie back and try to rest."

She leaned her head back against the pillow. "Okay, Doc. Just whatever you do, don't let them cut off my leg."

A short time later, as I was about to speak my mind to someone about the delayed arrival of the orthopedic consultant, the curtain swished open and Bernard White strode into the cubicle.

"Martin," he greeted me. "Sorry it took me so long to get here. Marilyn and I were at the opera."

I didn't thank him for coming or apologize for calling him away from his social event. As a surgical consultant, both went with the territory.

In my experience, many orthopedic surgeons had once been athletes at university and often still looked the part. If Bernard White had once been an athlete, I had trouble visualizing it. He was quite short, with a slight paunch and grey hair combed over a large bald patch on the top of his head. Like many men who started to lose hair on their heads, White had made up for it by growing more hair on his face, in the form of a full grey beard. Appearances aside, he was an extremely competent surgeon and unquestionably the top man in his field in Cornwall.

He made his way to the head of Morwenna's bed. "Miss Newcross, I'm Mr. White, the orthopedic consultant."

Morwenna nodded. "Doc Martin says you're going to save my leg," she said with confidence.

White exchanged a look with me that seemed to question what exactly I'd promised. "I'm certainly going to do my best. First, I'm going to have a look at your leg. It shouldn't hurt. If it does, you let me know."

Morwenna swallowed hard and nodded.

"I understand you were in an accident with an automobile," White said as he worked.

"Yeah, being stupid. Lucky for me, the doc was right there."

"It certainly was. No doubt his prompt actions have made your situation considerably better." For the next several minutes, White was quiet as he carefully examined her lower leg checking, I knew, on the severity and nature of the fracture, temperature of the leg, inflammation, sensation, and peripheral pulses.

When he was finished, White stood up and again focused his attention on Morwenna. "Miss Newcross, if you don't mind, I'd like to have a quick word outside with Dr. Ellingham."

"It's bad news, isn't it? You're going to have to cut my leg off," she said, biting her lower lip, and even I blanched a bit.

White smiled. "Please calm yourself, Miss Newcross. I simply want to discuss a few technical details with him. I promise I'll be back in a minute and will go over everything with you in great detail."

Morwenna looked at me as if I could assure her that what he was saying was true. For my part, I had no idea what White needed to discuss with me. "It's all right, Morwenna. We'll be back shortly," I said and followed White into the corridor.

"What happened with Sievers?" White asked as soon as we were outside of hearing range. "He came to me quite upset."

I briefly explained what had happened. "The man's an arse," I concluded.

White grimaced. "He's a fine surgeon but I'll admit tact and bedside manner aren't his strong points. In any event, let's talk about Miss Newcross. I understand she's your receptionist."

"Yes."

"Well, you saw the damage. It's bad," White said without preamble. "You were right to call me."

I nodded. I'd spent some time examining Morwenna's leg during the ride in the air ambulance and again when she was in A&E. In my past life, I'd frequently been called upon to provide vascular support to the orthopedists and thus had some familiarity with crush injuries.

"I'm not so worried about the fracture," White was saying. "That's readily fixable. What concerns me are the vascular issues. I don't need to tell you that a cold, pale and pulseless limb, along with obvious arterial hemorrhage and an expanding hematoma indicates vascular damage. And that the combination of fracture and vascular injury greatly increases the likelihood that amputation will be necessary."

"Of course I do," I said impatiently. "The issue is whether Morwenna's leg can be saved."

White stroked his chin. "I think so. If," and he emphasized the word, "revascularization can be accomplished. It's a tricky piece of surgery."

I frowned. "It's a straightforward repair of the popliteal artery."

"A procedure you've done many times."

"Of course." Years ago, I mentally added.

"Miss Newcross' odds would be greatly improved if you were her vascular surgeon."

"Me? What about Calverton?" I asked, mentioning the leading vascular consultant in Cornwall.

"He's not half the surgeon you were . . . are. And besides, he's on holiday, which means I'll have to use Halburton."

Good God. I knew the man only by reputation as somewhat of a plodder. Competent for routine, uncomplicated procedures but that was about it. Certainly not the man I would have chosen for this surgery.

"That won't do."

White sighed. "Martin, this is Cornwall, not London. We have whom we have. And you know as well as I do that the surgery can't wait for us to bring in someone from London or anywhere else. If we have any chance to save her leg, we need to operate immediately. Now, you have surgical privileges here and you've successfully performed this procedure many times. Are you going to assist me or not?"

My head was spinning. Yes, I had surgical privileges in Truro, but only because Chris Parsons had insisted I arrange for them when I'd turned down the position at Imperial. "Just in case," he'd said at the time. And now I was confronted with that case.

As I'd told White, the procedure was straightforward for an experienced and proficient vascular surgeon. I'd done hundreds of these in my years in London, typically with excellent results. And I knew that, if I didn't assist White with the surgery, there was a strong likelihood that Morwenna's leg might indeed require amputation. With my blood phobia cured, there was no reason for me _not_ to go forward.

So why was I hesitating?

Was it out of habit at the thought of being immersed in a bloody scene? A lingering fear that maybe I wasn't as "cured" of my phobia as I'd let on or believed? Was it that this would be the first vascular procedure I'd performed in nearly five years? Was I afraid my skills had deteriorated? Or, was it that the way Morwenna had been clinging to me reminded me of the relatives of that old woman so many years ago? Was I afraid that operating on Morwenna would bring back in a rush all of those fears I'd worked so hard to conquer?

As White stood there awaiting my reply, I knew none of it mattered. The most important thing – the only important thing – was that a patient, my patient, needed my help. If I didn't operate, a young woman would lose her leg and I'd spend the rest of my life knowing it had happened because of me, because I was too frightened of . . . whatever . . . to operate.

Whether this would be the first day of the resumption of my surgical career or the very last surgery I ever performed, I'd get through it no matter what – for both Morwenna and myself.

"Yes, I'll assist," I said with confidence.

"Good. Let's go talk to the patient and then get started."

* * *

><p>Morwenna's eyes that stared at me were wide. "<em>You're<em> going to do my surgery?" Her tone made it hard to decide if she was merely incredulous or was actually mocking me.

White had just finished explaining the entire situation – the seriousness of the injury, the planned orthopedic repairs, and the potential risks. Morwenna had listened quietly until he'd mentioned the process for revascularization, which I would perform.

Before I could reply, White jumped in. "Miss Newcross, right now, the blood flow to your lower leg is severely restricted as a result of a damaged artery. If Dr. Ellingham can't successfully repair it, quite honestly, it won't matter much what I do. The procedure requires an extremely competent vascular surgeon and, frankly, you are quite fortunate he is here and willing to perform the surgery."

"Right," she said. "It's just that—"

_He has that blood thing,_ I mentally finished her sentence. She'd made clear during the surgery on Louisa's mother that she was well aware of my hemophobia, even if she'd never witnessed it firsthand.

Aloud I said, "Morwenna, if I didn't believe that I could successfully complete the procedure, I wouldn't attempt it."

"Yeah, Doc. I know," she said, with a tired smile and a look of encouragement.

And, in that moment, I wondered if Morwenna was more concerned about herself, or about me.

"I know," she continued, "you'll do your very best like you always do."

"Alright, then," White said. "Let's not waste any time. Miss Newcross, they'll be in directly to get you prepared for surgery. And Dr. Ellingham and I need to get scrubbed. I promise, you're in good hands."

* * *

><p><strong>Medical Glossary<strong>

**Dexies: Slang term for Dexedrine - an amphetamine**

**Arterial hemorrhage - bleeding artery**

**Expanding hematoma - bruising that increases in size**

**Popliteal artery - Through numerous smaller branches, this artery supplies blood to the knee joint and muscles in the thigh and calf. **


	17. Chapter 17

I'd forgotten how incredibly fatiguing surgery could be, both mentally and physically. I leaned against the nursing station in the theatre area, allowing it to hold me up as I scribbled out my surgical notes and post-op instructions. I'd still need to dictate a full report, but these comments would provide necessary guidance to the aftercare staff.

At just over three hours, my portion of Morwenna's surgery hadn't been all that lengthy as far as vascular procedures went. Of course, it hadn't helped that those hours were in the middle of the night or that I hadn't performed real surgery in more than five years. I'd had to call on my extensive training and experience to keep my mind sharp and my hands steady throughout the procedure.

"Excuse me." One of the nurses was trying to get my attention. "Doctor . . . er, Mister, uh . . ."

"Yes," I answered, lacking the energy to clear up her confusion.

"There's someone waiting for you in the surgical waiting room. Asked me to tell you when you were out of theatre."

"Alright. Thank you," I said, as I signed the chart and handed it back to her.

Mr. Newcross had certainly made excellent time, I thought as I strode down the corridor, still in my scrubs. They were sweaty and I was anxious to change into a fresh pair, which at this point would be preferable to my day-old and blood stained street clothes. I ran a hand along the stubble that had started to form on my chin and upper lip. I definitely needed a shower and a shave as well.

That would have to wait. Speaking with anxious relatives was always a surgeon's first priority and, as I approached the waiting area, I considered what I'd say to Morwenna's grandfather. No doubt he'd be as exhausted as I was, emotionally at least, and given his age and likely fatigue I'd have to balance my usual honesty with a measure of sensitivity.

At this hour, the waiting room was nearly empty. All of the routine surgeries had long since been completed and now only the relatives of patients undergoing after-hours emergency surgery remained. A family I didn't recognize was seated in chairs nearest the door. Their dazed eyes looked up briefly when I entered and, once they'd ascertained I wasn't the surgeon they were seeking, resumed their nervous, downward casts.

I frowned. There was no sign of Mr. Newcross. Maybe he'd gone to the lavatory. I took a final glance around the room noticing for the first time that, at the very back, someone was curled up on one of the room's few sofas, covered with a coat. It looked like . . . oh, for God's sake, it was. What in the world . . .?

"Louisa," I said softly, rushing forward and kneeling next to her. I'd never expected to find her waiting for me and wondered how long she'd been here, sleeping on the uncomfortable hard plastic couch.

At the sound of my voice, she sat up quickly, blinking rapidly.

"Martin." She brushed the hair back from her face.

"What are you doing here?" I asked softly. And then, with a fleeting sense of panic, asked, "And where's James?"

"James is with Pippa," she quickly assured me. "She agreed to come over to stay with him."

That was a relief. Louisa's friend had cared for James in the past and was at least marginally competent. "You're the one the nurses said was waiting for me?"

She nodded.

"But I don't understand. Why are you here?"

"How's Morwenna?" Louisa asked, now fully upright and obviously ignoring my question for the moment. She traced her fingers along the stubble of my face and I frowned in embarassment at my unkempt appearance.

"She's doing as well as can be expected," I said carefully.

"Martin!" Louisa's voice was soft, yet forceful. "If you're going to call in the middle of the night to tell me that you're going to perform your first vascular surgery in years, you might give me just a bit more information on how it turned out."

So that's why she'd come – because it was my first foray back into vascular surgery. She'd driven all the way out here in the middle of the night to be here for me. But had she come because she knew I would succeed or because she'd expected me to fail? Should I be appreciative or angry?

Worse than not knowing what to think was having no clue what to say. Even under the best of circumstances, I typically said the wrong thing. Now, after a taxing surgical procedure and nearly twenty-four hours without sleep, I was more likely than ever to say something that I'd regret. I vowed to keep the conversation impersonal until I had some sense of Louisa's motivations. Whether I could keep that vow in my current state was another question entirely.

I took a seat next to Louisa on the sofa. As my wife, she was now privy to some of the issues affecting my patients. And, I had to admit that, unlike Morwenna, Louisa had not once breathed a word about them to anyone.

"Morwenna's still in surgery but should be sent to the recovery room shortly," I said. "The revascularization – the restoration of blood flow to her lower leg . . . my part of the surgery," I clarified, "went well. Assuming White does his typically excellent orthopedic work, the prognosis for full use of the leg is excellent."

Louisa sighed with relief. "That's wonderful, Martin. I'm so glad."

And again I wondered if she was talking about Morwenna, or about me. "She's in for a long rehabilitation period, of course," I added. "It won't be easy, but she's a strong young woman."

"Yes she is strong, isn't she? As are you."

I raised my eyebrow at the statement. "I got through the surgery without a return of my . . . blood issue, if that's what you mean."

She shrugged off the comment. "And you were your usual brilliant self, I'm sure."

I tried not to blush at the compliment. "As I said, the procedure went well."

"And so now are you happy?"

It was essentially the same question Louisa had asked after I'd operated on her mother nearly six months earlier. Now that I'd proven to myself and to others that not only could I perform emergency procedures in my surgery or the back of an ambulance but also could complete complicated vascular surgery in an operating theatre – now that I'd proven that I was once again the great Mr. Martin Ellingham, was I happy?

I couldn't answer the question because I hadn't given it much thought; there'd be plenty of time for that in the hours and days to come. The past few hours had been consumed with the intricacies of the procedure itself, making sure I did everything right and making sure my stomach contents stayed in my stomach. Only now that it was all finished, and finished successfully, could I finally allow myself to reflect on what I'd done and what it might mean for my future. But not tonight.

"I'm relieved that the surgery is over and the prognosis is good," I answered truthfully. "Now, _you_ never answered _my_ question. Why are you here in the waiting room at" – I glanced at the wall clock – "four in the morning?"

Louisa smiled sheepishly. "I knew how important today, well yesterday actually, was to you and I . . . I thought you could use a ride home."

"So you drove all the way to Truro and have slept on the couch here all night simply to give me a ride home?"

"Of course not. I . . ."

My worst fears were realized. "You thought I couldn't do it," I said bitterly. Damn. After I'd saved her mother's bowel, I would have thought Louisa of all people would have confidence in me. Knowing _she_ doubted my ability to return to vascular surgery left me cold and numb.

"No, Martin. I knew you _could_ do it, would do it. When Joe told me Mr. Newcross wouldn't make it here in time and then you told me you were operating . . ." She sighed, then took my hand in hers and waited until our eyes met. "I thought that when you came out of theatre . . . well, that someone should be here. I wanted to be here. Not only for Morwenna, but also for you. I wanted to be here to share in your moment of . . . success, accomplishment, whatever."

I took a deep breath. It was the first time anyone other than a patient's relative had cared how one of my operations had turned out. I might never know the true motivation for Louisa coming to hospital this night. One thing I did know is that whether the operation had succeeded or failed, whether _I'd_ succeeded or failed, Louisa had been prepared to endure the outcome.

I didn't know what to say so, at my peril, I spoke the truth. "I'm glad. You're here, that is."

Louisa smiled at me and it was the greatest reward I could have asked for.

"So, shall we go home?" she asked.

There was nothing I'd rather have done than get in the car and drive home with Louisa and take her to bed and show her how much I truly loved her. However, there was something else, something less pleasant but more important, that I had to do.

I sighed. "I need to stay here," I said. "For when Morwenna wakes up. She should have at least one familiar face in the crowd."

Louisa squeezed my hand. "Martin Ellingham, there's a soft spot in you after all."

I snorted at the comment. "I simply want to ensure that the borderline incompetents in this hospital don't mess up all of the work I've done."

Louisa shook her head as she smiled. "Of course, Martin." She yawned. "Then I should head back."

"Absolutely not. You're far too exhausted to make that long drive back on those winding roads in the dark." I picked up her coat and draped it over her shoulders, giving her a tight hug in the process. "I'll call you a cab and drive the car home tomorrow."

"And what about you being tired? You're the one who's been up all night."

"I'll catch a few hours in the on-call room. I've done this many times before, Louisa. I'll be fine. And I'll be home as soon as I can."

Her eyes twinkled. "I'll be looking forward to it."


	18. Chapter 18

I tumbled down the stairs to the surgery at half past eight on Monday morning, well before my patients had started to arrive. I'd stayed at the hospital until late yesterday afternoon in order to assure myself Morwenna was doing well medically and was in competent hands among the nursing staff. Nonetheless, I'd managed a full night's sleep and felt reasonably refreshed as I entered the waiting room.

"Good morning, Doctor," the prim Mrs. Potter greeted me, looking every bit the librarian she'd once been. Her hair, with streaks of grey that she didn't bother to color, was pulled back into a tight knot above the base of her neck. She wore spectacles on a chain that hung over her blouse. And, as always, she was dressed in a blue suit that had probably last been fashionable two decades earlier. If nothing else, she was a far cry from Morwenna or even Pauline.

"Mrs. Potter," I acknowledged her.

"I received your message," she said. "I've rescheduled your afternoon appointments and pared down the morning patients to those who swore they had actual medical emergencies."

"Good."

It was hard not to smile at her use of the term "actual medical emergencies" and her efficiency. I had to admit that Louisa had been correct about the woman; she was both capable and discrete. However, much as I hated to admit it, there were moments when I missed Morwenna's tawdry outfits and brash manner. If nothing else, it had made for quite a few refreshing mornings.

"How's Morwenna?" Mrs. Potter asked.

"Doing well."

"Hmmp. Seems half the village is calling to ask about her. Patients, friends, everyone. Might be helpful if I had _something_ more to say to them."

"You don't _have_ to say anything to them."

"I know that." She gave me a disapproving look. "And since you've lived In Portwenn for half a decade, you know that's no solution. Pretty soon they'll be lining up at the door to pester _you_ for information."

"Oh, good God."

"You know I'm right, Doctor."

"When I see Morwenna in hospital this afternoon, I'll ask if there's anything she wants you to say." It was up to Morwenna to decide what the denizens of Portwenn were told about her condition – every last sordid detail or nothing at all.

Mrs. Potter gave me an appreciative look. "Everyone's saying that you performed some of that fancy vascular surgery on Morwenna just like you did in London."

I gave a resigned sigh. "Yes, I operated on Morwenna."

"You saved her leg."

Wherever did these people obtain their infernal gossip? "The orthopedic consultant deserves credit for that."

"Not from what I hear."

I wondered if she considered all surgeons to be arrogant arseholes who needed their egos stroked at every opportunity. I'd never been that way even during my heyday in London. After performing a single procedure after my forced and extended exile, I certainly wasn't looking for accolades from the likes of Mrs. Potter.

Instead, I asked, "Do you have my list of consultations?"

She handed me the thankfully short list of morning patients. "I added Mrs. Blevin to your schedule. She phoned this morning worried to death about Frances. Her nine-year-old daughter," Mrs. Potter answered my unspoken question. "Said the girl's stomach's been hurting since yesterday and now she has a fever, so I thought you'd want to see her straight away."

I frowned. There were number of conditions that could cause abdominal pain and fever in children – gastroenteritis, urinary tract infection, strep throat, pneumonia and of course appendicitis. The mother should have called me yesterday when the symptoms first appeared and now my mind was already racing through the differential diagnosis.

"How long has she had the symptoms? How high is the fever?"

The woman looked positively apprehensive. "I don't know, Doctor."

"Didn't you ask?"

"I didn't think it was my place—"

"Of course you didn't," I replied sharply. Maintaining patient confidentiality didn't mean she couldn't obtain valuable information for _me_. One good thing about Morwenna's inherent inquisitiveness was that it often gave me a head start on my diagnosis.

I grabbed the stack of patient notes and made my way into the consulting room to start my day.

Frances Blevin had not been afflicted with appendicitis. No, her stupid mother had failed to mention her daughter's significant ear pain. A quick look through my otoscope made it abundantly clear that the girl was suffering from otitis media. I prescribed a course of amoxicillin and sent her on her way.

I easily dispensed with my other patients. It was the usual GP fare – a refill of anti-hypertensive meds, a sinus infection, a URI, a sprained ankle, a couple of post-op follow ups, and so on. Nothing to tax my diagnostic or medical skills.

Nearly finished with the list, I wandered back out into the waiting room. "Where is Mrs. Brown?" She'd been my last scheduled patient and was already fifteen minutes late. It was quite unlike her.

"She called a few minutes ago to say she couldn't make it," Mrs. Potter replied.

"Did she say why she needed to see me in the first place?"

"No, Doctor."

"Hmm." I took her notes back to the consulting room and dialed the number for the Brown residence. After only two rings, Mrs. Brown answered.

"This is Dr. Ellingham. You didn't show up for your consultation."

"I called. Told your receptionist I couldn't make it."

I heard the apology in her voice. "Why were you coming to see me?"

"It's not me, it's Ethan. He's . . . oh, God. He's really bad. He's in so much pain and the medications hospice gave him don't seem to help and he screams all night and I can't sleep—"

"Mrs. Brown."

"And I thought maybe I could go out but there was no one to stay with him and then I didn't want to leave him alone—"

"Mrs. Brown!" It was obvious that the woman was at her wit's end and I did my best not to snap at her. But the rambling was getting us nowhere.

Over the phone line, I heard her exhale heavily. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't complain, least of all to you."

I realized that given her situation she needed to complain to someone. "Mrs. Brown, have you discussed your husband's situation with hospice?"

"Yes, but they keep sending different people and I have to explain it over and over and they don't seem to understand that Ethan's in so much pain and . . . I don't know what to do."

"What medications are they giving him?"

She sighed with the frustration I'd heard so many times from the relatives of terminally ill patients. "I'm not sure. Morphine I think. I can go look."

"It's all right, no need."

"Ethan wants me—" Her voice hitched. "He wants me to give him . . . too much. An overdose. He wants to die. And I can't." Her voice bordered on the hysterical. "I love him. I can't kill him. And I know he hates me because I'm letting him suffer. He begs me to kill him and I don't know what to do. What am I supposed to do?"

During my many years as a physician and surgeon, I'd seen all manner of suffering. What Mrs. Brown was going through was really no different than the saga of relatives of terminally ill patients throughout the ages. Yet, the woman's pain cut through my well-established emotional barriers.

As I sat alone in my office, on the phone with a wife who was soon to be a widow, I couldn't help but think of Louisa and me. Like the Browns, we'd been married for only a few months. Like Ethan Brown, I'd finally found true love. How would we have handled a calamity like this – having our newfound love suddenly stripped away by a cruel and relentless disease?

As for Mrs. Brown, she'd obviously reached her limits. The last stages of lung cancer weren't pretty, and I had little idea what I could do for her or her husband. But, as Ethan Brown's GP, his health remained my responsibility, even if only for a few more weeks . . . or days.

"Mrs. Brown, I'm headed to Truro this afternoon. I'll stop by on my way and see what I can do for Mr. Brown and for you."

"Doctor Ellingham, please don't bother. You need to see to Morwenna. We'll be alright."

How in the world had she heard of Morwenna's situation? "It's no bother." It was my responsibility. I glanced at my watch. "I should be there in about an hour."


	19. Chapter 19

My mood was somber as I entered Truro hospital. My visit to Ethan Brown had shown his condition was indeed grave. There was little doubt in my mind that the carcinoma had spread to his major organs and that his time would be measured in days, a fortnight at most. I'd increased the dosage of his analgesics to alleviate the pain and prescribed Mrs. Brown a mild sedative. I'd called the district nurse and asked her to stop by, told Mrs. Brown to call me any time and promised to return the next day. My actions were pitiful and wouldn't change the outcome, but it was all I could do for now.

Once inside the hospital, I quickly made my way to the surgical ward, picking up Morwenna's chart along the way. The notes from the night nurse showed she'd had a restful night and continued to make good progress.

"Afternoon, Doc," Morwenna greeted me a few minutes later as I strode toward her bed, one of a dozen in the large open bay ward. She looked much more alert than a mere twenty-four hours ago.

"Morwenna." I continued to review her notes. The results of the doppler scans I'd ordered were encouraging. She still had a long recovery ahead, but the prognosis remained excellent.

Satisfied, I put down the chart and focused my attention on her injured leg. White had used internal and external fixation to align the tibia and fibula. Knowing Morwenna's fear of needles, I wasn't entirely sure how she tolerated the collection of thin metal rods protruding from her skin at all angles. Even though I knew it wasn't physically painful, it was certainly a gruesome sight.

The positioning of the bones was White's department; I was interested in ensuring proper blood flow. I checked the color of the injured limb and compared the peripheral pulses in the popliteal arteries of both legs, finding them strong and equal.

"I heard the nurses and the other docs talking," Morwenna said as I worked.

"Did you?"

"Brilliant's what they're calling it."

I merely raised my eyebrows.

"_You_ saved my leg."

Not again. "Mr. White had something to do with that."

"But if you hadn't done the . . ." She frowned. "What do you call it?"

"Revascularization."

"Right. If you hadn't done that, I would have—" She closed her eyes and shook her head. "I don't even want to think about it."

"There's no need. You're recovering nicely."

She gave me one of her trademark smirks. "And you didn't pass out during my operation."

I gave her an annoyed look as I replaced the bedsheet and picked up her chart to add my progress notes. "Of course not."

"Did you like doing it? The surgery I mean."

"I . . ." I didn't want to discuss my feelings with my patient. "I did what I needed to do, that's all."

"But you're really, really good at it, aren't you?"

It was hard not to feel pride in the compliment, even if it was coming from an ignorant patient. I'd always been an excellent surgeon and Morwenna's procedure had proved that my skills hadn't deteriorated during the years I'd spent in Portwenn. I should be exhilarated. Instead, I was . . . relieved, I suppose.

"Ah, Doc, you're blushing."

"No I'm not." I decided it would be best to change the subject. "Morwenna, whatever were you doing the other night? Having worked in my surgery, and after that experience with your grandfather, you of all people should know better than to use illicit drugs. What were you thinking?"

Morwenna looked down and bit her lip, her exuberance of a few minutes ago now gone. "I wasn't thinking," she said softly.

"Obviously not. Do I need to tell you how dangerous it is to take amphetamines without a doctor's order, not to mention that mixing amphetamines and alcohol puts additional strain on the cardiovascular system, increases blood pressure, and creates the potential for a stroke. Your stunt the other night could have cost you your leg."

"I know I was being stupid." She sighed. "Seems I'm always being stupid these days."

"Yes." I started to launch into a more detailed lecture on the dangers of drug abuse, the risks of addition, and the potential consequences. As I stared past the external fixation device that now encased Morwenna's leg, I thought better of it. She'd be in that contraption for weeks and, if that didn't convince her of her foolhardiness several nights ago, nothing would, certainly not a scolding from me.

I took a deep breath and mumbled something about youth being a time for doing stupid things.

"Did you do stupid things when you were young?" Morwenna asked, clearly relieved to turn the focus of the conversation back to me.

"Of course not."

She seemed surprised at my response. "Really? Never?"

"No."

"Doesn't sound like you had much fun growing up."

Fun was definitely not the word to describe my childhood. My youth had been spent studying, first to get into whatever boarding school my parents had decided I should attend and then for my A-levels. _Do you want to be accepted to medical school or not?_ my father would ask rhetorically. I couldn't remember ever doing anything spontaneous, let alone reckless, that might in any way diminish my chances. Once I'd arrived at university, far from the intimidation caused by my father's physical presence, my focus was on earning high marks to have my choice of medical specialties. There's been no time for recreation, let alone mischief of the type in which Morwenna had engaged.

"I was too busy studying to be a surgeon," I replied, which was all the explanation Morwenna would get. I returned to scribbling my notes.

"So now that you're a surgeon, does this mean you're going to stop being our GP?"

I glanced up from the chart. "What?"

"You know, are you going to do surgery all the time?"

What was it with these people? "Morwenna, I'm still your GP – well, Portwenn's GP seeing as you've changed surgeries. I performed your operation the other night because . . . because it was necessary."

"You're still _my_ GP, Doc. I'm not that stupid."

"Right."

"So you did like it, didn't you? Being a surgeon again? Saving my leg and all that."

I ignored the question, focusing instead on a slight sheen that had appeared on Morwenna's face. I frowned and stepped over to the bed. When I pressed the back of my hand against her forehead, I felt the warmth of a moderate fever. Damn.

"Has the house officer been in to see you this afternoon?" I asked. There'd been no evidence of a visit in her chart.

"I don't think so."

I swore under my breath as I stomped out to the nursing station to obtain the instruments I'd need. Back in Morwenna's room, I performed a basic exam, finding nothing amiss other than the elevated temperature. I wrote orders for additional blood work and, in the meantime, a broad spectrum antibiotic that would hopefully be effective until the lab could isolate whatever bacteria were responsible for her condition. The last thing Morwenna needed was a systemic infection.

"I'll be back to see you tomorrow," I said when I'd finished.

"Thanks, Doc," Morwenna said as I reached the door. "You're the best."

I turned back at the remark. "I'm simply providing competent medical care to my patients."

She gave me a bright smile. "Right."

I'd no sooner rounded the corner outside of Morwenna's room when I nearly ran headlong into Chris Parsons.

"Mart!" he exclaimed, stepping backward while smiling at me. "Heard you were in the hospital and thought I might find you here."

I had no idea why Parsons was looking for me. "Uh, yes," was my noncommittal reply.

"Have you got a minute for a cup of coffee?"

"I don't drink hospital coffee."

"Right. Tea then?"

I leaned against the nearest wall and crossed my arms over my chest. "Chris, what is it now? Has someone complained? Because if so, just tell me and let me get on my way," I said impatiently. "I've got a long drive home and I'd like to see James Henry before he goes to bed."

Parsons gave me an indulgent smile. "You're the talk of the hospital, but it's not because anyone's complaining."

"That's a first."

His eyes seemed to twinkle. "Well, a couple of the registrars have been bending my ear about your tirades, but I'm not—"

"The registrars? If you mean the idiots who unnecessarily throw about the word amputation or don't make rounds as often as they should and don't bother to check whether a surgical patient is running a fever, I think I have reason to be upset, don't you?"

"Mart, Mart, calm down. As I was trying to say, I'm not giving their whinging the time of day."

"I should hope not." I started walking down the hall. "So what's the problem?" I asked with resignation.

"There's no problem. The reason people are talking about you is the surgery you performed on your receptionist. Everyone's saying how bloody exceptional you were."

I shrugged. "It was a simple repair of a compressed popliteal artery."

Parsons stopped in mid-stride and grabbed my arm. "Mart, there was nothing _simple_ about it! I talked to White. When he first saw the extent of the injury, he was convinced he'd have to amputate. He said not ten vascular surgeons in England could have done what you did."

While I appreciated the compliment, especially coming from White, I couldn't begin to fathom why we were having this conversation. "And your point being?"

"Come on, Mart. You know how quickly news spreads. With one procedure you've shown the surgical world that your blood thing is history and that you're every bit the surgeon you were five years ago."

I groaned involuntarily. "It's not as if I planned for this to happen."

"Of course you didn't. But, it did happen and personally, I think the outcome is terrific. After all you've been through I'm really happy for you." His expression morphed from a smile to a grimace. "Although from a professional standpoint as head of the PCT . . ."

I frowned in return. "I don't understand."

"Looks like I'll to have to find another GP for Portwenn sooner than I'd expected, and while the village certainly has its attributes, it's not the easiest slot in Cornwall to fill—"

My frown deepened. "What do you mean?"

"After Diana Dibbs . . ." Parsons shook his head and rolled his eyes. "Anyway, you stayed on longer than I had any right to expect and I'd been rather hoping you might make your stay permanent. Now that you've got your hands back in surgery, how long before you're back in theatre permanently, here in Truro or somewhere else?"

My head was spinning. "Why would you think that?"

"That you'll be leaving Portwenn as fast as your feet will carry you? Oh I don't know," Parsons answered himself in a tone that was overtly mocking. "Maybe because returning to surgery is all you've been talking about, all you've been wanting for the past year, hell for the past five years."

While I was trying to come up with a reply, someone approached from the end of the hall. "Martin, Chris." As the woman walked up, I recognized her as Mary Swanson, Louisa's OB/GYN consultant. Short, with straight dark hair and a full face, she looked nothing like Edith Montgomery. Cornish by birth, she had a relaxed and easygoing way that, personality-wise, was also nothing like Edith. Thank God.

"Mary," Parsons responded while I merely nodded my own greeting.

She stopped in front of me and, given that I stood nearly a head taller, she had to look up to meet my eyes. "Martin, I heard about your revascularization. Absolutely incredible, especially in this hospital." She quickly glanced at Parsons. "No offense, Chris, but this isn't exactly the Royal London."

"Yes, well . . ." I struggled to form a coherent response.

"How did it feel to be in theatre again after all that time away?" she pressed.

"It was fine." It was enough to have performed the surgery. I didn't want to have to discuss it with colleagues.

"Fine?" She laughed softly. "Going back to surgery after all these years and doing _that_ procedure. That's quite an interesting way to put it."

"I think Martin's trying to say that he was thinking more about the patient than his own situation," Parsons interjected.

I gave him an annoyed look. "I can speak for myself, thank you."

"So," Mary asked, "Will we be seeing more of you here in theatre or are you going to be headed off to London . . . again?"

"I haven't, uh, made any decisions."

Her eyebrows lifted. "Right. Well, good seeing the both of you. Give my best to Louisa, Martin."

"You haven't made any decisions?" Parsons echoed when she'd gone. "Does that mean there's still a chance you'll stay in Portwenn?"

"I don't know. I don't bloody know!" I pushed away from Parsons and made my way down the long, broad white corridor that was suddenly and unexpectedly confining.


	20. Chapter 20

Since Louisa and I had moved in together, I'd generally let her take the initiative in our lovemaking. It had seemed prudent right after James Henry's birth when I feared she might still be suffering some discomfort from the delivery. And afterward I didn't want to be seen as pressuring her, pushing her faster than she was ready. The few times I had been more assertive, I'd always been careful to proceed slowly, letting her know I was as interested as she was but still wanting her to retain control.

Last night had been different. Whether it was the fact Louisa had recently been fitted with her IUD so we no longer had to resort to condoms or that, after my visit to the Browns, I had an urgent need to demonstrate how much I loved my own wife, I'd been more aggressive than usual. Louisa had certainly seemed to enjoy the experience but, when we lay curled on our sides afterward, her body curving into mine, I'd suddenly felt guilty . . . and concerned. What if I'd hurt her?

Under the guise of fondling, I tried to examine her.

By now, she recognized the difference between foreplay and a medical check and immediately swatted away my hand. "Martin, stop that!"

"Louisa, I . . . in my enthusiasm, I fear I may have injured you."

She twisted in the sheets until she was facing me, a pout on her face. ""You didn't hurt me. It was wonderful. I'd been waiting so long for you to . . . I loved it, and you." she finished, a wicked smile playing on her lips as she reached over to kiss mine.

I still wasn't convinced and pulled back. "Are you certain? The tissues of the vagina are quite delicate—"

She covered my lips with her finger. "Martin, I know you'll always want to be my doctor, you can't help yourself. But, please, not when we're making love."

"I need to be sure—"

"No, you don't. I promise that if anything hurts, before, during or after, I'll tell you. And you." She allowed her finger to trace downward until she was poking lightly at my chest. "You have to promise that as long as you're in this bed – any bed for that matter – with me, that you'll turn off your doctor mode."

I gulped. How could I do that? I would always worry about Louisa, medically and in every other way – as I always had. It was my job to protect her, as her husband and her doctor. I wouldn't let some deadly disease slip up on her as it had on Ethan Brown.

It still galled me that Louisa had spent the first six months of her pregnancy far away from my medical supervision. If I hadn't been so busy trying to conquer my blood thing, I might have picked up that damn phone and found out that Louisa was pregnant with my child before she showed up at my doorstep. A host of things could have gone wrong in those first months and, I knew that had anything happened to her or our baby, I would never have stopped blaming myself.

"Martin?" Louisa's finger was now drawing expanding circles on my chest and drawing my attention back to her. "No examinations, no medical talk. Promise?"

Her hands remained playful but the seriousness in her eyes told me that this matter was important to her. "You'll always tell me if something hurts you?" I asked. "Even a tiny bit?" I had to have some assurance that whatever we were might do wouldn't cause her any harm.

She smiled. "Well, maybe not if it's only a _tiny_ bit."

I scowled and started to sit up. "But you said—"

She pushed me back onto the bed. "I was joking."

Right.

Her hand reached down further. "So, do you promise?"

At moments like this, I'd promise her anything. "I promise to do my best." My best not to _say_ anything medically-related. There was no way I could promise to stop worrying about her.

"Do your best?" she said, eyes widening. "Maybe you'll show me what that means . . ."

So I did.

* * *

><p>That had all been several hours ago. Afterward, Louisa had fallen asleep almost immediately while I'd lain awake in the dark, staring at the walls and the ceiling and the curve of Louisa's back. I worried about so many things, starting with what I'd agreed to with Louisa. I worried about the Browns, both of them. Was Ethan still in unbearable pain and was Judith getting any sleep tonight, any at all? Would Mrs. Richards be able to cope with her son's death without overdosing on barbiturates? And then there was Morwenna. Had her temperature increased? Had she developed any complications?<p>

I finally gave up trying to fall asleep, put on my dressing gown, and made my way downstairs to the living room, hoping the creaks on the wooden risers wouldn't awaken Louisa or James.

I placed a quick call to the hospital, where the night staff had assured me Morwenna's temperature had come down half a degree and that she was showing no signs of infection or other complications. Still, I'd visit her in the morning to check for myself.

It was odd being Morwenna's surgeon and her GP, the first time since Peter Cronk's surgery that I'd played both roles simultaneously. And Peter's emergency procedure in the back of the ambulance didn't really count as surgery in my book.

I stepped into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water, deciding once again that we needed a larger home. The living space that made up the lower floor of my cottage had been more than adequate when I was the only one living in it. Now that there were three of us, it always seemed cramped. Our family had little privacy from my receptionist or patients. Louisa had no room to call her own. We stumbled over one another in the lavatory. James Henry had nowhere other than our living room to play. And I had no place other than the living room where I could simply sit and reflect, as I wanted to do now.

A new home would have to wait, I realized with a touch of regret. Estate agent Ethan Brown would never again show a cottage, to us or to anyone else and I wasn't ready to start over right away with someone else.

I seated myself on the sofa and thought back on the events of the past several days. After so many years, I'd finally made a return – and a successful return at that – to vascular surgery. I'd performed a complex procedure without losing my touch or my lunch. Once and for all, my hemophobia was under control. It's what I'd been seeking ever since that wretched day in London with that old woman and her clinging family. The great Martin Ellingham was back.

Now it seemed that everyone in Cornwall wanted to know if I was "happy" that I was once again a "real" surgeon. Or, as Louisa had put it after I'd performed the hernia repair on her mother, had I enjoyed it?

I couldn't answer them because I didn't know the answer myself. How was I supposed to feel now that I'd finally accomplished what I'd set out to do so many years ago? Pleased? Elated? Vindicated? Satisfied? Relieved?

Everyone clearly thought I should be "happy." However, being happy to be a surgeon _again_ must mean I'd enjoyed being a surgeon in the first place. And, as I sat here in my living room in Portwenn, with my wife and son asleep upstairs, I realized that, until now, I'd never actually given that much thought.

I took a sip from my glass of mineral water. Why _had_ I decided to become a surgeon? It wasn't out of some misplaced sense of altruism or the obnoxious, "I want to help people," claptrap that so many would-be medical students spewed forth in interviews these days. It wasn't even that surgery was unquestionably the best use of my skills. I could have been a successful engineer or scientist or even a repairer of clocks. But if I'd risen to the highest level in any of those fields, it would never have been good enough. No, if I were honest with myself, I became a surgeon for one reason and only one reason.

I turned at the sound of groaning on the stairs behind me and, with a sigh, watched Louisa descend the steps, her own dressing gown wrapped tightly around her. My muddling in the kitchen must have awakened her.

"Martin? What are you doing down here in the middle of the night?"

I shrugged. "Couldn't sleep."

She frowned and stifled a yawn. "Are you still thinking about last night?"

"Of course not!" I quickly reassured her, inviting her to sit down next to me. "It was wonderful. More than wonderful," I added.

"Then why are you sitting here by yourself in the middle of the night?"

I blew out a long breath. "I was thinking."

"About what?"

This was exactly why I needed a room for myself. "About whether I was ever happy as a surgeon."

Louisa did somewhat of a double take. "What?"

"Ever since I performed the surgery on Morwenna, it's what everyone in this blasted village has been asking me. Am I happy?"

"You're not surprised about that, are you? After all, you've made it clear from the day you arrived that you always wanted to return to being a vascular surgeon. And now you've done it."

A year ago, her comment would have been the start of yet another row. How many times had we argued about my being unhappy in Portwenn and wanting to return to surgery? Whereas before it had been a point of contention, now it was reality. Louisa, I know, was simply trying to understand me, which was never an easy task.

"Martin?" Louisa said tentatively after a long moment of silence.

Yes, I'd made a successful return to vascular surgery. So why didn't I feel better about it?

"You know my father was a surgeon?" I finally asked.

"Yes."

Thankfully, Louisa had been spared actually meeting the ogre. Even though I rarely spoke of the man, she must have heard tales from the gossiping villagers and from my own aunts.

"It's why I became a surgeon, you know. Because my father was one."

She frowned. "I don't understand."

Her confusion was fair. Why would I want to emulate a man I despised?

"It was the one thing my father valued above all else. The only way I could ever earn his respect and approval was to become a surgeon, just like him."

Only not like him. Christopher Ellingham was a general surgeon – a good one, to be sure – but still only a general surgeon. And, in the all-important surgical hierarchy, specialists stood a clear notch above generalists. So I chose what many considered the most demanding specialty – vascular surgery.

"From what Chris Parsons and Aunt Ruth have told me," Louisa said, interrupting my thoughts, "You were quite brilliant then and, given what you did for Morwenna, are quite brilliant now." She started to reach for my hand, but I pulled it away.

In London, I'd worked bloody hard at my craft and, soon my technical skills were second to none. I was called on to perform the most demanding procedures and was consulted by heads of industry and state and, on occasion, even members of the royal family. I taught surgical registrars by the dozens, my articles were published in the leading medical journals, and I was in demand on the speaker circuit. Before I'd even turned forty, I'd reached dizzying heights my father had never even dreamed of.

It wasn't long before I was the toast of London surgical circles. When someone referred to Mr. Ellingham, they were invariably referring to me, not my father. It galled him and, though he'd never say it openly, Mr. Christopher Ellingham knew that Mr. Martin Ellingham had completely bested him.

"Yes," I said with a small sigh. "I was good, a better surgeon even than my father." I wasn't bragging, merely stating reality.

"You must have enjoyed that," Louisa said.

"Besting my father? Absolutely." But that was an entirely different question from whether I actually enjoyed what I was doing.

"I meant being at the pinnacle of your profession."

That was the question, wasn't it? At the time I was, I recalled, satisfied. Satisfied because I was at the very top of my profession, satisfied because I'd earned the respect – if not the friendship – of my colleagues, and satisfied because, in becoming a vascular surgeon, I'd finally done something that my father couldn't criticize and couldn't equal. At the time, I'd equated all of those things with happiness. But was it?

I shook my head, staring at the far wall. "I don't know that I did . . . enjoy it, that is."

It was Louisa's turn to look surprised. "Whatever do you mean?"

I started to stand up. "It's late, early actually, and we both need to be up in a few hours. We should go back to bed."

She pulled me back onto the sofa. "Martin, please. Talk to me. I know you don't like talking about feelings and emotions and all that. But something is obviously eating at you. It might help, just a tiny bit," she said, echoing the words of earlier tonight, "To share what you're thinking."

My thoughts and emotions were a jumble as I struggled to process all that had happened in these past weeks. The Browns, Morwenna, Bobby Richards. Sickness, injury, death. Being a surgeon again and being a GP. A house that was too confining, a son who was growing up too quickly, a wife whom I loved dearly, villagers that wouldn't stop gossiping, and a patient list that was too long.

It all swirled in my mind. I couldn't even sort it myself; how could I ever explain any of it to Louisa? And, more importantly, did I even want to? I'd always seen myself as Louisa's prince, her knight in shining armor. I was supposed to take care of her. How could I do that when I could barely take care of myself, when I didn't know what I wanted to do professionally for the rest of my life? To admit my indecision was to admit that I wasn't the man or the husband she had every right to expect me to be.

Oh, God. For all my sometimes bluster, at the moment, I felt like a weak, vacillating fool. I couldn't even bear to look at her.

"Martin, just tell me. It's alright."

It was the same voice that I'd heard at the castle so many months ago, the voice that had urged me to share emotions that I'd kept bottled up for years. I allowed myself a mental smile as I recalled my soliloquy to Mrs. Tishell that was really my pouring out my heartfelt and long-withheld feelings to Louisa. I'd let myself go that day, and things hadn't turned out so badly.

I could do it again. Louisa was strong; I'd seen it that day at the castle and so often after that. I could trust Louisa, even with my inadequacies.

I turned until I was staring straight into her gorgeous and troubled eyes. "I don't know that I _ever_ actually enjoyed being a surgeon."

Louisa simply looked at me with an expression of curiosity and I was thankful that, for once, she didn't feel the need to say anything. Finally, she again reached for my hand and, this time, I let her take it.


	21. Chapter 21

Someone famous once said that having is not so pleasing a thing as wanting. From the moment I'd arrived in Portwenn – hell, from the moment I'd been unable to perform that simple operation in London years ago – I'd wanted more than anything to once again be a vascular surgeon.

And now that I had that thing I wanted for so long, now that I'd proven that I again could be the surgeon I'd once been, I was finding the adage to be true.

"But you do enjoy being a doctor," Louisa was asking, "Don't you?"

My response was automatic. "Of course I do." I couldn't even imagine myself doing anything else.

"What do you like about it? Why do you like being a doctor?"

_What's with the twenty questions?_ I almost snapped at her then calmed myself. If I were ever to sort out my conundrum, these were questions I'd have eventually to answer.

Nonetheless, the question was annoying and I answered in the petulant manner I often used with my ignorant patients. "People come to me with medical complaints – with illnesses or injuries – and I treat them." It was that simple. "Those whom I can help that is," I added, thinking of Ethan Brown and Bobby Richards, for whom I'd been able to do nothing at all.

"What was special about being a surgeon – other than the thing with your dad?"

That was easy. "People who require vascular surgery are generally very ill. My skill often meant the difference in the patient living or dying. It's a gift that quite frankly is wasted treating the common cold and pulling snotty peas from children's noses. Which is how I seem to spend most of my days here."

Months ago at the castle I'd told Louisa that I'd stay in Portwenn for her and James Henry and, since that day had been more or less content to while away my days as the local GP. The success of Morwenna's surgery had unexpectedly opened up a world of possibilities. Everyone, including me, seemed to assume that because I could be a surgeon again, I would be a surgeon again.

"Martin, just because you _can_ do something doesn't mean you _must_ do it."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" I was beginning to regret getting being dragged into this conversation.

"What if you had an exceptional singing voice?" she asked.

I gave her an annoyed look. "I don't."

"But if you did. What if you could be the next Pavarotti but instead wanted to be a doctor? Would that mean you would still have to be an opera singer?"

This was a stupid conversation. "Of course not."

"So why _must you_ be a surgeon if that isn't what you want to be?"

"For God's sake, Louisa! There's a difference between saving lives and entertaining tuxedo-clad philanthropists." A difference she clearly couldn't comprehend.

"Martin, you just finished telling me that, if you hadn't been trying to prove yourself to your father you might never have become a surgeon in the first place."

I nodded, my eyebrows pinching together. That much was true.

"And along the way," she continued, "you found you were good at it. Exceptional, in fact. That doesn't mean that you're required to do it forever if it's no longer what you want to do."

"But when I operated on Morwenna, it felt right, even good," I admitted. "What I was meant to do."

"Because you were performing vascular surgery or because you were saving Morwenna's leg?"

"Aren't they the same thing?"

She shook her head with a knowing smile. "When you went to see Morwenna in hospital yesterday, was it as her surgeon or her GP?"

"I'm her doctor," I said simply. I'd never even thought about the distinction.

"Yes, you're her doctor. And the doctor to everyone in this village."

I remembered the conversation with my father several years ago. "I'm responsible for the healthcare of this community," I'd said at the time. A duty I took very seriously then, and a responsibility I could never seem to avoid or escape.

I couldn't even drive out of the village for the last time without stopping for that stupid dancing teacher. When the disastrous Dr. Dibbs wouldn't examine Joe Penhale's genitals, I'd done it. And when her short reign as village GP ended, I'd postponed my surgical career and stepped in to replace her – for a few days, then a few weeks, then a few months. And now?

"Martin, you've proven you can be a surgeon again. The question is whether you want to."

It was a question I never thought I'd need to answer. And it was more complicated than even Louisa realized. If I stayed as a GP, I'd forever have to answer to surgeons, such as my father, for whom GPs were a lesser form of existence. It had been hard enough when I could no longer be a surgeon; to admit that I had subsequently _chosen_ not to be one – regardless of my reasons – would provide an endless source of ridicule.

More importantly, I needed to determine whether I could simply pick up my scalpel and take up where I'd left off. What I hadn't told Louisa – hadn't told anyone – was that Morwenna's operation had made me painfully aware that I'd indeed been away from theatre for more than five years, an eternity in surgery. I'd been able to push through her procedure only because I'd done it so many times before. And then, when it was complete, when I knew I'd done all I could within the bounds of my skill, I'd walked into the lavatory and heaved up bile.

This time it wasn't the sight or smell of blood that caused me to be ill. I was sick about what might have passed me by. Watching White and the surgical registrars had shown me that going back wouldn't be as easy as simply walking into theatre every day. There were new instruments, new techniques, new procedures, new ways of doing things that I'd only read about in the journals. There was no doubt I'd be the best vascular surgeon in Cornwall, but was that good enough? And how long until the next whiz kid came along and exposed my weaknesses?

I stared down at my hands, large hands with carefully trimmed nails, the same hands that had saved countless lives in the operating theatre and that now . . . "I thought I did," I replied honestly to Louisa's question. "I thought that regaining my surgical abilities would be all that I needed."

"And?"

"I don't know!" It's the same thing I'd told Parsons and the fact that everyone was asking me that question was getting in my nerves. My current situation seemed almost worse than when I'd developed my hemophobia in the first place. Miserable as I was at that time, I'd had little choice in deciding to retrain as a GP. Now, the choice of whether to continue my medical career as a surgeon or a GP was entirely up to me.

"Martin, you don't have to get angry."

"I'm not angry!"

"Then why are you shouting at me?"

My voice, I realized, had been rising. I took a deep breath and blew it out. This mess wasn't Louisa's fault; of course, it wasn't really mine either. Damn fate – or whatever it was.

I tried a different tack. "Would it make you happy if I were to stay here in Portwenn as the GP?" I was pretty sure I knew what her response would be, so I was surprised when she didn't answer immediately.

"Of course I'd like for you, for us, to stay here. It's my home and, in many ways, your home too. But only under one condition."

I frowned. "What's that?"

"That staying here and being the GP is what you really want to do. You've been miserable for the last nearly five years—"

"I have not!" I replied indignantly.

"Well, you could have fooled me – and everyone else in this village, for that matter." It was her turn to sigh and lean back against the sofa. "Martin, I know you agreed to stay in Portwenn for James Henry and me. But your surgery and this village can't be the confines of your prison. In the long run, you'll end up resenting us for keeping you from what you need to do.

She was right. With Louisa and James Henry I'd achieved a level of personal happiness that I never thought possible. While I'd hoped that would make my job as GP more palatable, had it? Could I be content to spend my days treating hives, hypertension, and hypochondria if the end of each day was spent with the two people I loved most in this world?

Louisa had posed the right questions. She wasn't, however, the one to help me find the answers. That would require another visit to Truro.

* * *

><p>Author's Note:<p>

The "someone famous" who once said "Having is not so pleasing a thing as wanting," was Mr. Spock in the Star Trek Original Series episode "Amok Time." While I can't surmise whether DM ever watched Star Trek, poetic license lets me believe he at least would have heard the phrase.


	22. Chapter 22

"Martin!" A consultant in surgical scrubs covered by a white lab coat was hailing me from halfway down the hospital corridor. "Martin Ellingham!"

As we neared each other, I recognized Jonathan Morehead, Truro's Chief of Surgery.

"Heard you were in hospital," he said, holding out his hand.

"Seeing to one of my patients," I replied.

"That popliteal revascularization?"

"Yes, Morwenna Newcross. She should be discharged tomorrow."

"A fine piece of surgery. Really first rate."

You'd think I'd invented the scalpel the way everyone was talking and by now I was more than tired of discussing it. "Yes, it turned out well."

"So, how do I get you to join my staff?"

"Excuse me?"

"Well, you're certainly not going back to being a GP after what you did the other night, are you?"

"I haven't really given it much thought—"

"A complete waste of your talents, if you ask me."

"I didn't."

"Didn't what?"

"Ask you."

"Right." Morehead seemed to shrug off my barb. "I'd like to get you on the rotation starting the first of the month. Easier to sort out the schedule that way."

"I'm sure."

He glanced at his watch "Well, I'm due in theatre in twenty minutes. Best get scrubbed." He held out his hand again. "I'm looking forward to working with you."

* * *

><p>"If Edith Montgomery could only see you now," Parsons said with a smile.<p>

We were seated across Parsons' desk in his Truro office. I'd called ahead of time and asked if I could stop by after I'd checked in on Morwenna. I'd wrestled with the questions Louisa had posed and still had no answer. I was desperate to talk to someone who might at least understand the depth of my dilemma. And so the first thing Chris had done was to remind me of Edith's role in this predicament.

"If you hadn't run into her that day in A&E," he said. "If she hadn't suggested you were wasting your skills as a GP, would you ever have considered returning to surgery?"

"I don't know. Maybe not."

Parsons smiled again. "So, in the end, this is all her fault."

"Chris, this isn't funny. I came to you because I don't know what to do – whether to continue working as a GP or go back to surgery."

"And you think I have the magic answer?" Parsons leaned back in his chair and crossed his hands over his abdomen.

"You're the one who convinced me to come to Cornwall in the first place . . . and then to stay when I was ready to leave after that first god-awful week. You're also the one who helped me find the position at Imperial, so I'd rather hoped you might have some insight."

Parsons raised his eyebrows and I was beginning to regret having stopped by after all.

"Oh I have lots of insight," he said. "I'm just not sure you want to hear it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"If you remember, that first week I also told you that you were the best bloody physician the people of Portwenn would ever find. I know that it hasn't always been easy—"

"That's an understatement," I interjected and was rewarded with a sharp frown.

"Dammit Mart, as I've told you many times before, you're an incredibly good GP."

"I also have a fair talent for repairing clocks, but that doesn't mean it's how I intend to make a living." Two could play at this game.

There was a knock on the door and, when Parsons told the person to enter, a matronly woman stepped inside in carrying a tray that held a teapot and two cups.

"Here you go Dr. Parsons," she said, setting down the tray and filling our cups. The minimal effort required seemed to wear out the poor woman.

"Thank you, Mary," Parsons said when she'd finished. "This is wonderful."

She gave him a broad smile, gave me a frown, and slowly left the room, closing the door tightly behind her.

Parsons sighed and took a long sip from his cup. "Look you came here asking for my opinion. Do you want to hear it or do you want to argue with me after every sentence?"

I held up my hands in mock surrender. "No. Go on. Tell me what you think." As if I had a choice other than to get up and walk out.

"Okay, here goes." He took a deep breath and slowly released it. "I'm not sure you'll ever be completely content as either a GP or a surgeon."

I rolled my eyes. "Don't be ridiculous," I snapped, although he actually looked quite serious, which somewhat worried me.

"Hear me out. When you were essentially forced to become a GP, you acted like it was purgatory because it wasn't vascular surgery, which you'd convinced yourself was the only thing you were ever any good at."

Yes, I had used those words on occasion.

"And then," Parsons continued, "One day you woke up and found out that you were an equally good, if not better, GP."

"If by that you mean I'm more competent than my predecessor or my short-term successor, then yes. It's not a particularly high standard."

"Knock it off, Mart. You know you're more than good; stop acting like it's some new revelation."

"I think my complaining patients might disagree with you," I quipped.

"They complain about your lack of bedside manner, empathy, and the like – qualities, I might add, that weren't exactly necessary for a vascular surgeon. What they don't complain about is your competence."

"So, I was a very good surgeon and now I'm an adequate GP. So why is it so hard for me simply to choose one and be done with it?"

"Mart, if the choice were that obvious, you would have made it long ago and we wouldn't be sitting here today having this conversation."

There were times like this when Parsons was infuriatingly accurate, especially about me, which was one of the reasons I'd sought out his advice in the first place. "You said I wouldn't be happy with either choice," I reminded him.

Parsons shook his head. "No, I said you'd never be _fully_ content. You were first a surgeon and that expertise and mentality will always be part of you. How else do you explain the times you've jumped in and saved the life of a patient using your surgical skill? And yet," he continued without giving me a chance to answer, "for some reason it no longer seems to be enough. Why do you think that is?"

Now Parsons sounded like some idiot psychologist. "How should I know?" I responded, not willing to play that game.

"Well, if _you_ don't know . . ." His tone was mocking.

My eyes blazed and I started to stand up from my chair. "Chris!"

"Mart, calm down. I'm only offering an opinion, not a psychological assessment."

I eased back into my seat.

"I think," Parsons continued, "You enjoy the challenge of diagnosis. Surgery is primarily physical ability. Oh sure, you need good judgment and decision-making skills but, at the end of the day, it's all about using your hands to fix the body."

"It's not that different as a GP," I countered. "People still come to me with problems and I fix them."

"Only now you first have to figure out what their problem is."

"Snotty peas up their nostrils, you mean?"

Parsons laughed at that. "Yes. And also Lyme disease, West African sleeping sickness, trichinosis, and a host of other strange maladies you've managed to diagnose in your time here."

"A half-competent house officer could handle most of it."

"Mart, I've worked for the PCT for the past ten years, so trust me when I say that's simply not true. You provide an extremely high level of care that, quite frankly, your patients have come to expect and rely on. It'll be damned hard to fill your shoes."

"So you're saying I should stay as the GP."

"If you do, you know as well as I do that every time you read the _Journal of Vascular Surgery_ you'll be thinking, 'what if?' And then, when you go back to your URIs and sprained ankles, you'll once again believe your talents are being wasted."

"So I should go back to surgery."

"Where you'll be itching to diagnose and treat your patients' medical conditions, not simply their surgical ones. I can't imagine you ever being able to walk by your patients, colleagues, and neighbors without reverting to your diagnostic instincts."

"What's wrong with—?"

"What's more, you've spent the last five years knowing all of your patients. Whether you choose to admit it or not, I think that at a certain level you actually care about them. Look what happened with Dibbs – she was the GP in name and you were the GP in practice."

"She was a menace."

"Mart, now's not the time—"

Right. "Well I can't be both a surgeon and GP, so how do I decide?"

"You really want my advice?" Parsons asked.

"Of course I do. I wouldn't be sitting here if I didn't."

"First," Parsons ticked off the number on his finger. "Recognize that you're extraordinarily fortunate to have this choice. Most doctors would kill to be half as good as you are in either discipline."

I waved off the compliment. It might be true, but it wouldn't help with my decision.

"Second, you accept the fact that there will inevitably be some level of perpetual . . . let's call it 'dissatisfaction' . . . with whatever choice you make."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true; there is no perfect answer. And third, you think about what is most important to you now and for the rest of your career. Not what was important ten years ago or even ten months ago. What matters now, ten months from now and ten years from now? Where do you see yourself living? What do you see yourself doing? What is your measure of success?"

"You sound like one of those self-help seminars. Are you going to tell me what I should do or not?"

"Not." He laughed softly.

"A lot of help you've been."

Parsons pulled off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I think you know the answer but you're fighting it."

"So why don't you bloody tell me!"

"I didn't say I knew the answer; I said that you knew it. It's simply a matter of accepting it."

We both stood up and Parsons started to walk me to the door of his office.

I paused at the threshold. "Oh, one more thing."

"Yes."

"I assume your receptionist is being treated for COPD," I said.

He stopped so quickly that I almost ran into him. "What? You mean Mary?"

"I have no idea what her name is. The old woman who I spoke to before I came in here and who brought us the tea."

"That's Mary. Why do you think she has COPD?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Not to me and I see her every day."

"She's a smoker, she's suffering from dyspnea from walking down the corridor and is coughing up mucus. I can hear her wheezing from across the room and she told me that she's had several URIs in recent months."

"Dammit, Mart, you've done it again."

"Done what?"

"Made a diagnosis without even examining the patient."

I shrugged. "I could well be wrong."

"I doubt it," Parsons mumbled under his breath. Then, slightly louder, "She's my damn receptionist and I completely missed it."

"Whatever. I need to get home; Louisa will be waiting dinner."

* * *

><p>Medical Glossary<p>

COPD - chronic obstructive pulmonary disease; basically a combination of emphysema and bronchitis

Dypsnea - shortness of breath

URI - upper respiratory infection


	23. Chapter 23

I phoned Judith Brown after Louisa and I had eaten dinner and before I changed for bed, inquiring as to the status of her husband.

"He's quite bad, hardly conscious," she'd said. "The hospice person said he might not last the night."

Given Ethan's condition when I'd last seen him two days before, I wasn't surprised at the news. "Is anyone there with you?"

"Just Ethan," she replied, her voice threatening to crack. "We're alright."

"I'll come out."

"No. It's dreadful weather and there's nothing you can do. He's not in any pain and I have the number for the funeral home. He's a hospice patient so there won't be any problems."

Two months ago, I'd delivered Ethan's death sentence; it seemed only fitting for me to be present when he died. Mrs. Brown was correct that there here was nothing I could do for her husband. What I could do was sit with a grieving wife in the moment she became a widow.

I turned to Louisa. "It Ethan Brown. Not good. I have to go."

She gave me a look of understanding. "I know you do. Be careful."

It had been a particularly wicked evening – a strong gale blowing in from the west, bringing biting wind, horrific downpours, and frigid temperatures. Not long after I arrived at the Brown cottage, Ethan Brown drew his last breath.

Like most doctors, I hated death because it represented the ultimate failure. When I'd been a surgeon and a patient died under my hands, that failure was intensely personal and I could never quite overcome the feeling that I hadn't done enough. In Portwenn, virtually everyone who died was a patient. While unfortunate, I'd come to see death as inevitable and, in the case of patients such as Ethan Brown, beyond my power to prevent.

I stayed until the undertaker arrived and helped Mrs. Brown complete the necessary but horrid paperwork, for which I'd developed a new appreciation after Joan's death.

"Thank you for coming," she said as I prepared to take my leave.

I nodded curtly. "It's my job."

"I know some people in this village say you don't care." She sniffed loudly, her eyes brimming with tears. "I know that's not true."

I was embarrassed by the compliment. "Will you be alright?" Scores of powerful drugs remained in the house and I had visions of Mrs. Richards and the tranquilizers.

She squared her shoulders and swallowed hard. "Not right away but, yes, I'll be fine. Now you get on home to your family."

An hour later, I slipped into bed next to Louisa and reflected on the irony that I was with my wife only moments after Ethan Brown had forever taken leave of his.

* * *

><p>My morning surgery had been the usual parade of viruses, sprains, strains and prescription renewals, along with cases of tendonitis, back spasms, arthritis and migraine. All of which a house officer could easily have handled and which made me wonder what the hell I was doing here.<p>

Louisa and I had agreed to meet up at the church after she dropped off James Henry with his sitter. As I strolled up the gravel walkway, I couldn't stop thinking about my last patient of the morning, a twelve-year-old girl who'd experienced several weeks of unexplained fatigue and lethargy. Her medical history and physical examination had revealed no obvious causes. Anemia was a possibility, although unusual in a girl who'd yet to start menstruating. I'd drawn blood and ordered a battery of tests and now considered what I'd do if they failed to help with a diagnosis.

I approached a small crowd standing outside the church that included Bert Large and several of the local fishermen.

"Doc!" Bert called out. "Glad you're here. I've been meaning to come see you about this thing on my side. Been itching like the dickens." He started to pull up his shirt with his left hand.

I tried to push past him. "Make an appointment with my receptionist."

"Come on, Doc. Just have a look. It'll only take you a second."

"No." I stopped in my tracks as a nasty odor assaulted my nostrils and I sniffed the air. "Bert, have you been smoking?"

He gave me a sheepish look and raised his right hand, which held a half-burned cigarette. I snatched it away and ground it under my shoe, snorting in disgust.

I stepped over to where the fishermen and their girlfriends were also puffing away. "You're smoking at a funeral for a smoker who died of lung cancer! What's the matter with you people?"

They gave me annoyed looks as I strode briskly toward the church. No doubt they were once again calling me a tosser. Parsons had called me an exceptional GP. But what good was my skill if people routinely ignored my advice and flaunted their unhealthy lifestyles? In more than a decade as a surgeon, I'd never experienced half the frustration that I faced in a single week in this blasted village of ignorant and non-compliant patients. I longed for the days when patients willingly accepted my advice. The fact that they'd been in an anesthesia-induced sleep much of the time I dealt with them was an added benefit.

* * *

><p>Ethan Brown's funeral was well attended; almost everyone from Portwenn to Truro who'd let or purchased a home – or even had wanted to do so – had called upon Brown to be their estate agent.<p>

I found Louisa already seated in a pew halfway down the aisle. As I took my seat next to her, she gave me a smile and squeezed my hand.

"Everything alright?" she asked in a whisper.

"Fine." It was, now that I was sitting next to her.

I only half paid attention as the casket bearers brought the pine box down the aisle, the vicar spoke, we stood for the hymns and then sat for the eulogies and prayers. I hadn't been asked to speak, probably for fear I'd give a lecture on the ills of cigarette smoking.

I thought about the last two times I'd been in this same church, for the funerals of Aunt Joan and Bobby Richards. I missed Aunt Joan terribly. Looking back now, I realized I'd been so distracted by all that had gone on with Louisa and James Henry, I'd walked through my aunt's death in a daze and never really grieved properly. Looking around the sanctuary, I didn't see Mrs. Richards. Given that she hadn't been in my surgery for a fortnight, I made a mental note to check on how she was getting along.

Louisa seemed engrossed in the service whereas I found myself watching Judith Brown, sitting ramrod straight and alone in the first pew. I wondered how she'd fare on her own in Portwenn. Once again, I was thankful for having Louisa and James Henry in my lives.

"Dr. Ellingham," someone whispered urgently. I turned to find the pharmacist, Mr. Pruitt, standing next to me, a worried expression on his face. "It's Morwenna. Her leg."

"What?"

"Just come quick."

With a brief apology to Louisa, I stood up and silently followed Pruitt through the back of the church and into the vicar's study. There I found Morwenna stretched out on the couch. Her leg, still encased in the external fixator, was propped on a cushion.

"Morwenna, what in the world are you doing here?" I asked. "Why aren't you home resting?"

She gave me a sheepish look "I had to come. You know, after what happened with Mr. Brown and Mrs. Brown and . . . I felt responsible—" She suddenly grimaced in pain and bit down on her lower lip. "Oh, God. It hurts something awful."

I shook my head in frustration and prayed this most recent act of stupidity hadn't reinjured her leg. I pulled up a chair next to her. "Let me see."

The skin color was normal as was the pulse through the artery. Orthopedics was White's department but from what I could tell the external fixator appeared to be properly positioned and the bones remained in alignment.

Morwenna hissed and whimpered as I worked.

"Have you felt any tearing or burning?" I asked.

"No."

"Does the fixator feel loose or different at all?"

"No."

"When did you last take pain medication?"

Pruitt answered. "Percocet 10 mg around eight this morning."

That dosage should last six hours. It was nearly three now; if Morwenna had taken nothing since then, it was no wonder she was in pain. "I'll have to check my bag," I said. "It's in the car. I don't know that I have any opioids with me."

"I brought something along, just in case," Pruitt said, pulling two vials from his pocket. "MS and oxycodone. I could have given them to her but since you were here, I thought you should—"

"Of course you shouldn't give those without a doctor's order," I replied sharply then turned to my former receptionist. "Morwenna, what you've done is very—"

Morwenna sniffed. "Stupid, I know."

"Yes. By walking on your injured leg, you could easily—"

"I didn't walk; Nate drove me." She smiled up at him. "Even carried me inside. I know what you and Mr. White did for me, Doc. I won't mess it up."

"Hmm." I grunted and turned to Pruitt. "I assume you have a syringe and alcohol swab?" When he nodded, I said, "Draw up the oxycodone for me, please."

I pushed up Morwenna's shirt sleeve and swabbed her shoulder. Then, remembering her fear of needles, pointed to the far side of the room. "Look over there."

"Why?"

"Needle."

"Oh, right."

I took the syringe from Pruitt and injected it into her arm. "There you go." I watched carefully as the medication took hold and the tension started to leave Morwenna's body.

"Better?" I asked after a moment.

"Yeah." She took a few deep breaths. "Thanks, Doc. You're a good person to have around."

"If you took better care of yourself, you wouldn't need my services so often." I stood up and addressed my next comments to Pruitt. "Take her home, put her to bed, and make sure she stays there. And you," I said to Morwenna. "If you find your pain medication is inadequate, give me a call. Mr. Pruitt may be your boyfriend and your pharmacist; he's not your GP."

She grinned at me. "I'm fine, Doc. Don't worry about me."

"Of course not," I said sharply, knowing my statement was untrue.


	24. Chapter 24

I returned to Louisa's side in time for the final hymn and closing words from the vicar. At the conclusion of the service, Louisa and I joined the line of mourners filing out of the church. Although the sky was grey, the rain had held off so people could easily mingle and offer condolences prior to the graveside ceremony.

We crossed over to where Judith Brown was speaking with Amy, Mrs. Richards' eldest daughter. Both women looked up as we approached.

"Judith, I'm so sorry," Louisa said holding out her hand. "We were all so very fond of Ethan."

"Thank you, Louisa. It's so good of you to come." Mrs. Brown turned her gaze to me. "And, Doctor, I don't how Ethan or I would have managed these past weeks without your help. I do know we took you away from Louisa and your son far too often and I can't thank you enough."

Louisa assured her that it hadn't been any inconvenience. It wasn't true, of course, but I supposed it was what one said about such things at funerals.

"And Amy, how's your mum getting along?" Louisa asked. "I haven't seen her in ages."

"I was just telling Mrs. Brown that she really wanted to be here." The girl's gaze flicked to me. "Mum just couldn't bring herself to come to the church so soon after, you know, after . . ."

After her son Bobby's funeral, we all finished silently.

"It's alright," Mrs. Brown said in the voice mourning relatives used to assure everyone that everything was fine when it wasn't. "I know she's here in spirit and I hope to see her around the village very soon."

I rolled my eyes but, before I could say anything, a young couple I didn't recognize came up to express their condolences, drawing Judith Brown away and leaving Louisa and me alone with Amy Richards.

"Amy, how is your mother?" I asked. "Medically speaking."

She shrugged. "Better, I guess. It's still really hard on her. I sometimes think we should move house, away from all the memories. But with Mr. Brown so ill and Mum still wanting to be able to go into his room every day . . ." Her voice trailed off.

I was more interested Mrs. Richards' medical situation than her psychological one. "How is she sleeping?"

"She gets through the night, if that's what you mean. The medicine you gave her seems to help."

"She's not taking too much, is she?" The last thing I needed was the woman overdosing on my prescription.

"No. I'm keeping a close watch, like you said, Doc."

"Good. And what about you?" I couldn't help notice that Amy looked peaked and there were dark splotches below her eyes. She'd also lost weight, five kilos at least. Caring for her mother and her younger siblings for the past weeks was clearly taking its toll.

She smiled and shrugged off my concern. "Oh, I'm alright."

I wasn't convinced. "You look a bit run down. Come by the surgery tomorrow and let me check you over."

"It's nothing."

"Nonetheless, I'd like to see you," I said sternly. It probably _was_ nothing; but with Amy essentially functioning as the head of her family, it wouldn't do for her to become ill herself.

After exacting a promise from Amy to stop in this week, Louisa and I headed toward the crowd now standing around the grave.

"Martin, you do care," Louisa said.

"About what?"

"About Morwenna and Amy and Mrs. Richards and Judith and all these people. You've spent this entire funeral looking after your patients."

I shrugged off the compliment. "It's my job."

"And when it's no longer your job? If you take the surgical position at Truro, then what will you do?"

That was easy. "I'll let the new GP worry about things."

"I don't think you'll ever stop caring or worrying. In fact, Martin Ellingham, I don't think you can stop."

"Nonsense. Of course I can."

Or could I? As a surgeon, I treated disease and injury. As a GP, I treated people. And, God help me, for some reason I couldn't comprehend, let alone explain, I realized I did indeed care about the people of this village. Well, at least their medical issues. As I'd told Louisa months ago, I hated their pointed faces and obnoxious accents and the fact they caught and passed along diseases with an annoying frequency. But they were my patients and thus my medical responsibility. I'd cared for them for the past five years and, for some reason I couldn't begin to explain, couldn't imagine abdicating that obligation.

Our conversation ended as we sidled up the gravesite with the other mourners. Less than fifty feet to the south was Joan's gravesite, which I hadn't visited since the day she was buried. I preferred to remember my aunt as the vibrant alive person she'd always been rather than the decaying corpse now buried six feet below the ground.

Again I largely tuned out the vicar's words and instead focused my attention on Louisa. Expressing my feelings at that blasted castle had been both the hardest and easiest thing I'd ever done. Our relationship was still evolving, as it undoubtedly would for years to come. But I was happier – more content, as Parsons had said – than I'd ever expected to be – especially as a GP in a tiny Cornish backwater.

When the service was over, Louisa stepped away to speak with one of her teachers. I was surprised to find Chris Parsons walking up to me.

"Chris, I didn't see you here."

"Only got here a short time ago. Traffic on the Truro road." He glanced at the open grave. "I always liked Ethan. He sold us our house, you know."

"No I didn't."

"Morehead's been pestering me. Said he'd spoken to you about taking on a permanent position in the surgery department at Truro. So, should I start calling you Mr. Ellingham again?"

I shook my head. "I don't think so."

His eyebrows lifted. "You've decided then? You're not going back to surgery?"

"If there's a need, as with Morwenna, maybe. But no, I won't take a full-time or even a part-time position."

"I must admit, Mart, after all you've been through this past year, and after all the time and energy you put into your return to theatre, I'm a bit surprised. What changed your mind?"

I wasn't sure I wanted to – or even was able to – explain to Parsons the process that had brought me here. "I suppose I realized that what I have is better than what I thought I wanted."

His eyes narrowed. "I'm not sure I follow your logic."

"Someone once said the sentiment was illogical."

At that moment, Louisa came walking up. "Chris, good to see you again, although I wish it were under different circumstances."

He gave her a peck on the cheek. "As do I. Ethan was a good man."

"Yes, he was."

"Mart and I were just talking about his future."

"Oh?"

"Yes, he was telling me that he intends to stay as the GP here in Porwenn. Quite the . . . change of plans, isn't it?"

Louisa's eyebrows furrowed in surprise. "Martin, are you sure?"

I took a deep breath. "Quite sure."

It wasn't entirely true. As Parsons had predicted, I'd come to realize there was no "right" choice and even now I had some unease about my decision. There would be days ahead, I knew, when I'd regret it altogether. Days when the monotony of my practice and the insolence of my patients would make me wish I'd chosen the alternate path of surgery.

But the events of the past weeks and especially today had convinced me that I'd made the better choice. Better for me, better for Louisa and James Henry, and better for the barmy denizens of Portwenn. And thus, there would be more days in the future when I'd be content that I'd made the right decision. And that, I now realized, was the most I could ever expect.

"So you're satisfied with your decision, then?" Parsons asked.

I reached for Louisa's hand and squeezed it tightly. "I'm . . . content. Yes."

"Hey, Doc!"

Parsons and I both turned at the sound. Al Large was shouting from across the parking lot and running towards us – well, at least moving toward us as quickly as his girth would allow. He was nearly breathless by the time he reached the spot where we were standing.

"It's Emma Mayfield," he said. "Tripped on the gravel and cut her leg up bad."

I exchanged a look with Parsons and sighed. "Alright Al, I'm coming. Louisa, would you get my bag."

I jogged across the lot toward where several adults were clustered around a crying child. A man I recognized as Adam Mayfield, Emma's father, turned to me.

"Doc Martin! Thank goodness you're here."

"It's _Doctor_ Ellingham," I replied automatically, for the first time emphasizing my title rather than my last name. I was a GP, not a surgeon – and always would be. "_Doctor_ Ellingham," I repeated. And, with a sense of satisfaction, I realized that was the title I was truly meant to have.

_~ The End ~_

* * *

><p>Author's Note: Thanks to all who have read this story and especially to those of you who have left comments. Every one is much appreciated. Finally, yet another thanks to my beta jd517, who made incredibly helpful suggestions and always managed to put me back on course.<p> 


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